


Gridlocked

by magisterpavus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Alien Biology, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Artificial Intelligence, Bartender Keith (Voltron), Betrayal, Clubbing, Corporate Espionage, Crimes & Criminals, Cybernetics, Cyberpunk, Dubious Morality, Dystopia, Established Hunk/Shay (Voltron), Galra Keith (Voltron), Gangs, Hacking, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Thace/Ulaz (Voltron), Neurological Disorders, Nihilism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, and they find meaning and comfort in each other, basically their world is fucked up, past Keith/Acxa (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-06-30 10:31:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 101,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15749898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: The Grid never fails to bring out the worst in everyone, and after six years trapped in the city's maze of crime and neon, Keith struggles to find meaning as a wanted man turned bartender. He's stuck, drowning in secrets and questions with no easy answers, and caught between worlds that threaten to tear him apart.His unexpected wake-up call comes in the form of a mysterious stranger with silver hair and a glowing arm who gives Keith an offer he can't refuse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wow i sure am glad that there's no other cyberpunk au in the voltron fandom these days..... _none at all_
> 
> I've wanted to write a Cyberpunk Voltron AU for ages, but only recently was I inspired (read: filled with spite-fueled creativity in the wake of recent fandom related events) to actually do it. So here it is. Everyone has dubious morality, no one is related/adopted who isn't in canon, most everyone is a jaded adult, and Shiro isn't named after a dog. I hope y'all enjoy~
> 
> follow me on [tumblr](http://saltyshiro.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/saltyshiro) @saltyshiro  
> wip [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-euZXVIF7nkg9w4_78syUDrb0Akwtndx) and [pinterest](https://www.pinterest.com/christinalinett/gridlocked/) for this fic/au!
> 
> lastly, this au is dedicated to [@tequieroshiro](https://tequieroshiro.tumblr.com/), whose love of sheith & cyberpunk is breathtaking.

The man with the silver hair and glowing arm is here again.

Keith likes to watch people. As a bartender, it’s an easy pastime. He watches them over the sticky edge of the bar as he pours them a pint of foaming golden ale from the tap. He watches them through the clouded surface of a shot glass as he polishes it with a cloth that’s seen better days. He watches them as they lean over the counter towards him with pleading eyes and empty drinks to spill their life stories out to him on a silver platter of drama and woe that he never asked for, but gladly accepts along with a hefty tip or two.

People never cease to entertain him. And in this city of neon skyscrapers and hard knocks, there’s no shortage of interesting characters. Keith is good at objectively observing, and moving on. He doesn’t become attached easily. Yet...there’s something about this one that worms his way into Keith’s brain like a loose, stripped wire, sending pulses through firing neurons at an unprecedented rate. He’s fascinating, and Keith isn’t quite sure why.

Maybe it’s because he’s beautiful.

But Keith sees beautiful people, and things, every night. Androids sit down at the bar by the dozens, with perfect smooth skin and luminous eyes and figures ripped straight from a magazine spread of most ideal body types. They turn the heads of everyone in the smoky, strobe-lit room, though no one mistakes them as human for a second. They’re too perfect.

Keith has never liked perfect, and the man isn’t. He may be beautiful, but like most people around here, he’s got parts missing. A chunk out of the bridge of his nose, for one, marked by the pale pink slash of a scar visible just under the roguish fall of hair into his face. His otherwise short-cropped, undercut hair is the color of harsh fluorescent street lights, shining from across the room as he sits in his corner booth alone and sips the expensive whiskey he always orders.

He rests his remaining arm on the table, holding the sweating glass idly between gloved fingertips. The other arm, the interesting one, props up his square chin on pale metal fingers, each one much thicker than the originals. There is nothing but air between the large cybernetic forearm and the softly glowing blue socket at his right shoulder. Keith wonders how he controls it – some kind of neurotransmitters, sensors, electromagnets...new technology, in any case. The arm is too heavy duty to be an aesthetic choice. It looks almost military grade, and Keith has a sneaking suspicion it can do more than just glow.

But the man hasn’t had it for long. Keith figures this out after less than a week of watching him – he never picks up his glass with the glowing arm, and the one time he tries, Keith sees him fumble, metal fingers shaking, before he sets it down onto the table again, too hard.

That’s the first time the man catches him watching, and the first time Keith has seen him wear anything but an expression of cool apathy. His lips quirk, a subtle curve that could hardly be called a smile, but it’s enough for Keith to turn away with flushed cheeks, hurrying to take his next order from a woman with rhinestone eyes.

The man doesn’t approach him that night; it’s the cusp of a weekend and the club is bursting at the seams with everyone looking to get as drunk as possible. Keith has his work cut out for him. He mixes cocktail after cocktail, deals out tequila shots like cards, grinds up mint leaves until the pungent smell settles itself firmly into his nose for the foreseeable future, slices oranges thinner than paper, measures out alcohol in exact dosages like poison, squeezes limes until the tiny cuts on his fingertips burn, plops endless ice cubes into already-full glasses, and skewers hundreds of olives into martinis that could pass as irradiated substances.

He orders a drink from Acxa while Keith is making daiquiris, and Keith’s hands falter around a handful of dripping strawberries when he hears the man say, “Whiskey sour, please.”

Acxa’s sharp hip knocks against the edge of the bar with a hollow thud. “Can do, good to see you’re changing it up a little. Cherry?”

There’s laughter in his voice. “Of course.”

A heavy palm comes down hard on the mirrored bartop inches from Keith. “Hey! Those pretty ladies ain’t gonna wait ‘round for their drinks all night, bartender!” bellows the man who ordered.

Keith adds the strawberries but does not give the man his drinks. Instead, he drags his eyes up and down the man’s hulking frame, unimpressed. His pallid, hairy skin is covered in tattoos, none very good, by Keith’s standards. Too many pin-ups and gaudy tribal patterns engraved with the telltale blacklight glow of fluorescein. His leather jacket is laden with decorations, silver chains and rows of glaring neon; what he surely believes are subtle marks of wealth but which only make him look like he’s overcompensating. Keith could smell the K on him from a mile away.

“That’ll be thirty credits,” Keith says, deadpan. He looks past, to the three women huddled at a table already littered with bottles. No – they’re girls, eyes too bright to have been in this place for long.

K’s eyes, cold and cloudy in comparison, glower back at him. “Thirty?! For three damn daiquiris?”

“Strawberries cost extra,” Keith retorts. “That’s what happens when you strip the ozone layer.”

K scowls at him, fumbles in his pocket, and slaps three coins down. Keith takes them, tucking each one neatly away under the bar with a twirl of his fingers. He can feel eyes on him, and they aren’t K’s.

Deft metal fingers hold a shiny cherry with the utmost delicacy, paused halfway to parted lips.

Ignoring them both, Keith loads the daiquiris onto a tray and steps out from behind the bar and towards the table with the three girls. K stumbles after him with a curse. “Boy! Come back here, those’re _my_ daiquiris –”

Keith sets the tray down in front of the confused girls. One sucks nervously on a straw in an empty mojito. The smallest of them is near unconscious, slumped against the most sober one’s shoulder. She stares at Keith fiercely. Her blue eyes are real, the color the sky used to be. She tosses a long blonde braid over her slight shoulders and lifts a fair eyebrow.

“We didn’t order those,” she says. He can smell the alcohol on her breath. _Vodka soda,_ he thinks. Not so sober, then. Just good at pretending. He can respect that.

“No,” Keith agrees. “He did.”

K grabs at Keith’s wrist at the exact moment that Keith turns, spins, and drives his concealed switchblade into the man’s gut. Rather, he _wants_ to, but he does like his job here and dislikes cleaning up bloody messes, so he settles with pressing the flat of the blade hard into the spot just above the man’s spleen.

All two hundred pounds and six feet of K splutters in his grasp, shaking in pathetic terror and screaming, “S-SECURITY! _HELP!”_

Keith plunges his hand into the man’s front pocket and tosses the plastic bag of ketamine to the ground. A soft shower of white powder cascades across the black floor, and there’s so fucking much of it that Keith has to take a breath to stop himself from gutting the man right then and there. The dancefloor echoes with startled shrieks, and someone drops a glass; most people are too far gone to even notice. “Security’s on their way,” Keith whispers into his ear, digging the blade in hard enough to make him whimper.

Seconds later, the endless boom and crash of the pounding music is interrupted by the shouts of the bouncers. They eye the spilled ketamine grimly, nodding to Keith, who releases the man as soon as they’re close enough to grab him. It’s not as satisfying as stabbing him, but Keith watches the bouncers drag him away in handcuffs and knows they’ll rough him up enough that he’ll never show his face around here again. He might find another club, another bar, but at least this one will be safe.

Blue Eyes blinks at him, her lips parted as she glances from Keith to the ketamine to the daiquiris. She’s sober enough to understand what her two friends don’t. “How did you…?”

Keith shrugs, and tucks his switchblade away. “Looked the type,” he says. “Enjoy your daiquiris. There’s hardly any alcohol in ‘em. He was counting on the K getting you, not the drinks.”

Her mouth opens and closes, and she picks up one of the glasses gingerly, nose scrunched up. “Thanks,” she mutters, and doesn’t meet his gaze.

Keith folds his arms. “What are you, seventeen?”

She frowns and hides behind the rim of the glass. “No,” she says. Hesitates. “Sixteen.”

Keith pinches the bridge of his nose. _Christ._ “You’re too goddamn young to be in a bar like this, kid. Hell were you thinking?”

“Seems like a pretty safe bar to me,” she says hopefully, and takes a sip of her drink. “Besides, you’re not exactly old and gray, yourself.” Her eyelashes flutter and she sips again, too loud. Yeah. Drunk. He reconsiders the daiquiris.

 _“Really,”_ Keith sighs. “Flirting with the bartender who just busted you? Classy, kid. Knock it off.”

“Or _what –”_

“I’m twenty-five,” Keith says. “Too old for you, just like everyone else in this place. And also, about to kick you out.”

Her blue eyes widen and she almost drops the daiquiri. “Wait – no, I didn’t mean – !”

Keith nods to one of the bouncers, who has been waiting off to the side since the others dragged K off. “Take care of these three,” Keith tells Hunk, who inclines his head and walks out of the shadows. Her eyes get even wider at the sight of his intimidating bulk, which is funny to Keith, considering he knows Hunk is much more comfortable up to his elbows in grease and gears in his workshop than he is swinging fists. But they all do what they must, in this city.

“Alright, you three,” Hunk says, “let’s get you a hovercab home, yeah?”

Blue Eyes falters, looking back at Keith, fear replaced by shock. “You’re not calling the cops on us?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I think they got bigger fish to fry. Go home.”

Her lip-gloss-bright lower lip trembles. “Thank you, mister,” she whispers. “I...my name’s Romelle, by the way.”

“Don’t tell me your name.” Keith shakes his head. “I never heard it. Goodnight.”

Hunk slings a girl over his shoulder, and herds the other two out the back.

Acxa throws him a broom and dustpan as he heads back to the bar, and Keith catches them without enthusiasm. Sweeping up ketamine wasn’t how he hoped to end the night, but it’s better than the alternative. _Romelle._ Hmph. He knows it’s hypocritical as all hell, but Keith wishes kids would just give themselves time to be kids. Maybe he’s just jealous that they ever had the chance to choose.

He scowls and sweeps up the ketamine with twice as much force, so focused in ridding the black tile of every stupid speck of white that he doesn’t notice the man with the glowing arm watching him. When he does, though, the steady gray gaze registers in a wash of heat through his entire body, puddling low and dangerous in his gut. Keith doesn’t realize he’s cracking the broom handle until it creaks under his ivory-knuckled grip, hairline fractures splintering through solid steel, and it’s then that he knows he’s in trouble.

Keith doesn’t drink much, these days. But later, when the club is cleared and the faint pink rays of dawn illuminate the hazy horizon through the frosted glass windows, Keith makes himself a black Russian, dipping the maraschino cherry into the dark liqueur and sucking it off the stem with a thoughtful slurp.

Acxa pauses where she’s wiping down table tops, exposed lower back shifting in an arch of lean brown muscle that Keith knows is softer than it looks as she straightens up and gives him a pointed look through messy violet bangs. Keith swallows the soaked cherry with a grimace and returns the look, and she snorts. “You wanna drink yourself into a drunken stupor for the day, be my guest. Cherries just aren’t really your style. That’s all.”

Keith frowns, first at her, then at the severed red stem in his hand. “That’s not true,” Keith says. “I like cherries...y’know, real cherries. Not this chemical shit.” He hasn’t had a real cherry in a decade, at least. He wonders how many credits a single fruit would cost, and knows the answer, as usual, is too much.

“Chemical shit,” Acxa repeats, shaking her head. “Everything’s chemical shit, Keith. The air. Ketamine. Alcohol. You and me. Even that silver fox from last night.” He stiffens and she smirks. “He got a cherry too, you know. Of course, _you_ know. But did you know he left it tied in a knot?”

Keith knocks back his drink. “One,” he grunts, “you _know_ what I mean. And two, _you_ said it first, not me. I didn’t ask.” He wonders if the man with the glowing arm tied the cherry stem knot with his tongue, and instantly regrets it.

“At least you’re not chugging Everclear yet,” Acxa shoots back, returning to her cleaning. _“Yet.”_

He flips her off. “Lance in today?”

“Not until eight,” Acxa says. “And you need sleep. Not an argument.”

Keith licks Kahlua off his lips. “Not gonna argue,” he mutters. “I just need to borrow his spinner.”

“Good luck.” Her tone is as optimistic as an environmentalist’s. “I think he’d rather throw himself off the top of the Garrison Spire than let you borrow his precious spinner. Blue is some unholy mix of his daughter and wife, you know that.”

“I know,” Keith sighs. “But…”

“Your hoverbike not working out?” she asks, curiosity slipping into her face and voice.

Keith shakes his head. “It’s working fine. I just…” He bites his lip and downs the rest of the Russian. “I’m gonna head home, unless you need help…?”

“No,” Acxa says. “You commandeered clean-up the last three mornings, I’ve got it. Get some sleep, Keith. I think you’ve had enough heroism for…” She checks her watches. “At least the next twenty-two hours.”

He chuckles, shaking his head and dumping out the empty glass, watching the stained ice cubes clatter down the steel basin of the sink. “Noted,” he says. “But, it’s not heroic, really. Just the right thing to do.”

“Mm.” She purses her lips. “The _right_ thing to do would be to send their underage asses to the station. But that’s a little too lawful for a lone vigilante like you, I know.”

“Vigilante,” Keith repeats, and shakes his head as he crosses the room, which seems so much smaller when it’s empty. “Dunno what you mean. I’m just a bartender.”

Her gaze lifts to him, kohl-lined eyes glowing the gold of the rising sun for a fleeting second, and then she looks away. “Bye, Keith,” she murmurs. “Take care of yourself.”

“No promises,” he says, skin itching and gums sore. “See you.” The door bangs shut behind him.

He runs into Allura on his way out, stopping short as he passes the front desk, where she’s perched atop a stool and typing away at her tablet. She glances up before he can try to sneak past, thick white ponytail bobbing in greeting. “Keith,” she says, voice warm. “Heading home for the day?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Keith says, hands fidgeting in his pockets. Allura has been kind to him, but it would be a deadly mistake to ever forget what she is, and what she can do. “That alright?”

She waves a hand with an amused tilt to her full lips, hot pink lipstick faded from a long night. “Fine by me,” she says. “Hunk and Coran told me about your little stunt last night. I would have _preferred_ that K never made its way into my club in the first place...but as it is, thank you. The man is in a holding cell as we speak, and I can guarantee his sentence will _not_ be light.” The sickle-shaped tattoos high on her cheekbones flare a vicious pink, and Keith swallows.

“It was the least I could do, ma’am,” he murmurs.

“Mm.” Her blue gaze, too cold and shimmering to be real like Romelle’s, sweeps over him, and she seems to approve of whatever she sees. “Have a safe ride home, Keith,” she says. “Reports are coming in of increases in Galra activity in Sector 13. That’s not far from your place, is it?”

“No,” Keith says. “I’m Sector 15.”

She frowns. “Then be vigilant,” she warns. “Those thugs know only cruelty and violence. You see them, you get away, as fast as you can. No heroics with the Galra, understood? They’d squash you like a bug, and then I wouldn’t have the second-best bartender in the Grid, anymore.”

“Second-best?” Keith jokes, desperate to change the subject.

Allura chuckles. “Acxa is the best, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Keith says, rolling his eyes, and she giggles as he continues on to the front door. “Don’t stay up all day, ma’am,” he calls over his shoulder. “Even you need to sleep, sometimes.”

“Me? Sleep? You must be joking!” Her laughter, high and sweet as tinkling bells, follows him out onto the street.

*

His ride home is uneventful; he knows how to avoid the Galra and the Alteans both, following the map in his head on autopilot, mentally dropping new markers of blue and black as he goes. Every hint of graffiti, every shattered window, and every passing stranger in a dark alley means something, here.

The towering skyscrapers and blinding digital billboards never really go away, but the longer Keith rides, the more spaced out they become, replaced by the empty, gaping windows of abandoned warehouses and the crumbling facades of old apartment blocks. The streets remain tight and narrow; the city’s claustrophobia is inescapable.

Still, it’s better than the inside of a prison cell.

His apartment complex is almost an hour away from The Pink Lion, a long hoverbike ride through twisting avenues Keith knows like the back of his hand after six years of making the same commute, back and forth, back and forth. Keith’s apartment is small and shitty and _his._ He has six locks on his door, and every single one is necessary.

He’s long since learned to stop wishing for more. He knows he’s lucky, luckier than most. He has a roof over his head, a steady job that pays well enough, a hoverbike, and a purpose.

He’s not so clear on the purpose part, these days, but he’s trying. That’s got to count for something.

Barely a second after he switches on the power console, a series of faint, joyful barks issues from the hall, and a huge ball of blue fluff and digital drool comes running out to greet him. Paws skid on the cracked tile and Keith smiles, kneeling down to let the holo-dog maul him with sloppy kisses that never quite touch. “Hi, Kosmo,” he murmurs. “Did you miss me, bud?”

Kosmo woofs happily, dropping to his front paws and wiggling his butt, tail thumping the air silently. Of course he misses Keith. He’s programmed to.

He may not be a real dog, but he’s a good dog. Besides, Keith can’t remember the last time he saw a real dog. They’re all gone along with the cherries.

He gives Kosmo a soft pat, ignoring the way his palm goes right through, and collapses onto his sagging couch, pressing his palms to the backs of his eyelids and sighing. Warm stripes of sunlight fall across the small studio apartment, and Keith wishes he wasn’t so nocturnal these days.

Eyes shut, he remembers running barefoot through warm sand, grains sticking between his toes and rubbing callouses into his heels. He’s on a creaking porch, his father’s arm draped over his shoulders, watching the sunset over the open desert, no one else for miles. The air smells like dust and creosote; his father’s shirt smells like smoke.

_Why don’t we live in the city, Dad?_

_It’s too dangerous for you there, Keith._ His father’s voice is sweet tea and cigarettes, and he clings to every syllable.

 _But Mom is in the city,_ Keith whispers, pleading, trying to understand what a child could never.

 _Because she has to be,_ his father sighs. His eyes are sad and his jaw is set. _Keith, remember what we talked about? Folks in the city...they’re afraid of Galra._

Keith’s brow furrows. _Like Mom?_

 _Like Mom,_ his father says, _and like you, Keith._

 _But I don’t look like Mom,_ Keith argues.

 _No,_ his father says, squeezing his shoulder. _Not yet._

But Keith has always taken after his mother most.

He wakes with a start to the dull beep of his alarm. The sunset stripes the apartment in fiery orange that pierces through the window shades. Kosmo, curled in a content ball at his feet, lifts his head with a questioning whine. Keith sits up, yawning, and scratches him behind a nonexistent ear. “Sorry, bud,” he says, “I gotta go back to work.” Kosmo lowers his head, whining louder. “I know, I know, I meant to play with you before I passed out. Tomorrow, okay?”

Kosmo yips and wags his tail, hopping off the couch and following Keith around as he gets ready for the night ahead. From time to time, the blue wolf-dog will blink in and out of existence, reappearing next to Keith in the bathroom as he brushes his teeth, or rubbing against his calves as he pours a bowl of tasteless rice cereal and a cup of tea. Keith’s been saving up to buy an emanator so he can keep Kosmo’s nanoparticles in his pocket and bring him wherever he wants to, but he won’t have enough credits for another couple months, at least.

Real or not, it’s always sad to say goodbye. Kosmo stares up at him with despondent eyes as Keith tugs on his boots, then buckles his sheathed knife to his belt, concealed under his worn leather jacket. Keith mimes throwing a bone so Kosmo will chase it down the hallway. That way, Keith doesn’t have to see the moment he switches the console off and the dog blinks out of existence.

*

The man with silver hair and the glowing arm doesn’t show for the rest of the weekend.

By Monday night, Keith is resigned to never seeing him again. He was just a stranger, a drifter passing through. Keith tries to go back to his routine of watching, but the faces in the crowd blur together, dizzying bordering on nauseous. None are new or interesting; their eyes are all vacant and glazed and Keith has to swallow back bile. Sometimes he hates this city. Most times, he hates this city.

He focuses on making drinks, but when he nearly slices off his thumb while cutting oranges, Acxa glares him into taking a break. The club empties early on Monday nights and Keith managed to survive through most of it, so by the time he slinks out from behind the bar with a pint of cold cider there’s less than thirty people in the place. The pounding bass echoes through the dark club and Keith winces. Another few years of this, and he might go deaf.

Keith doesn’t think before sliding into the secluded corner booth the missing stranger used to frequent. The plastic seat covers stick to his sweaty thighs through the rips in his jeans, and Keith shifts, uncomfortable, until he’s managed to twist his legs into some kind of fucked up pretzel on the seat. Scowling, he hunches over the table, elbows digging into the red linoleum, and drinks his cider though he wishes it was something harder. Acxa wouldn’t let him touch the vodka, which he thinks is a little unfair.

“Rough Monday for you too, bartender?”

It’s a miracle that Keith manages to stop himself from sloshing cider all over the damn table.

The man with silver hair and the glowing arm stands beside him, so much more beautiful up close. Keith can hear the hum of his arm, low and crackling like a live electric fence. He’s holding a whiskey sour in his gloved left hand, and his smile is crooked, crinkling up his eyes at the corners. Too late, Keith realizes he’s been silent for too long.

“Uhh,” Keith says, and coughs, unfolding his legs into some semblance of the way an adult man ought to sit, “could be better, yeah.”

“Sorry to hear it,” the man says, and to Keith’s horror, nods to the vacant seat. “Mind if I join you?”

Keith curls his legs inwards and shrugs. “If you’d like.”

He sits. His bulk blocks out the strobelights and most of Keith’s view of the bar, trapping him in the cast shadow. The man sets down his drink and says, “I’ve been meaning to introduce myself for a while, but...I must admit, you’re intimidating. Especially after you pulled a knife on Hal Mattix.”

Keith purses his lips. “Friend of yours?”

The man scoffs. “Hardly. But he has a reputation. Don’t think anyone has ever thrown a wrench in his plans so spectacularly.”

Keith hides his flush in his drink. “Protecting the patrons is in the job description. I’ve been here a while. It’s not a big deal.”

“Still,” the man says, tapping a metal finger against his glass, “you’re pretty good with that blade. Made me nervous.”

Keith leans back in his seat and raises a lazy eyebrow. “Unless you have a bag of ketamine in your pocket, you have nothing to worry about.”

He doesn’t expect the man to laugh, loud and genuine, and then wink with such easy charm that Keith’s stomach is instantly filled with angry butterflies. “Not a bag,” he promises, “just a pinch.”

Keith folds his arms, helpless smile playing at his lips. “Oh, well, that’s alright, then,” he says, and the man laughs again, hardly a pitch above the heavy bass echoing through the speakers.

The man leans forward, just enough to be too friendly. “I’m Shiro, by the way.”

“Shiro,” Keith repeats, and takes another drink. “...I’m Keith.”

 _“Keith,”_ Shiro says, and there’s no way that drawn-out, melodious-bordering-on-sultry version of his name was on accident. Shiro’s eyes glow with the silver light of his arm and the reflection of the pink ring lights above them. “Nice to meet you, Keith.”

He sticks out his cybernetic hand to shake, smile falling when Keith hesitates. He starts to lower the hand, an apology on his lips, but Keith gets ahold of himself and grasps it, shaking firmly. The metal fingers are surprisingly warm, and twice as thick as his own. Keith can’t stop his touch from lingering as he pulls away.

Shiro’s smiling again, but this smile is different than the others. It’s startled, and soft. Keith is melting, and he blames the cider. He takes a deep pull from it, wiping foam from his lips. Shiro’s eyes trace his movement. “That’s some pretty intense tech,” Keith says.

He’s unprepared for the way Shiro’s metal fingers flex in reply, slow and practiced. “Mm,” Shiro agrees, studying the limb, “that, it is.”

Keith downs the rest of his pint. “Guessing you didn’t just wake up one day and decide to saw it off?”

Shiro eyes him ruefully. “Not exactly,” he says. “Someone else did that for me.”

“Ah.” Keith frowns. “Damn. That’s, uh. That’s too bad.” He should never be allowed to speak to another person, ever.

But Shiro’s still smiling. “Oh, I don’t know,” he murmurs, “it’s not _all_ bad. Has its perks.”

The metal fingers are still moving, flexing, and humming quietly. It’s hypnotic. Keith watches, helpless, as the fingers dip into the untouched whiskey sour, plucking the maraschino cherry from the surface and popping it into parted pink lips. He sees Shiro’s jaw work, sees the dull poke of his tongue against the inside of his cheek, and sees the effortless knotted stem emerge on the tip of his tongue. Shiro’s eyes are half-lidded, and he takes his time placing the stem onto the table, well within Keith’s line of sight. In case he somehow missed that _obscene_ _display._

Keith’s not drunk enough for this. “I’m not drunk enough for this,” he announces, standing abruptly.

Shiro stands with him, and Keith is forced to look up; the man’s got a good five inches on him, at least, and Keith ain’t small. Not to mention how much _broader –_

“Let me buy you a drink?” Shiro offers, and Keith blinks. “You can order it, make sure I don’t slip anything into it,” he adds, only half-joking. “Just in case.”

“Hmph,” Keith says, already walking to the bar. “Sure.” The back of his neck prickles as Shiro follows, warmth at his back as he leans over the bar to get Acxa’s attention.

He needn’t have bothered; she’s already seen them both, and her expression is wicked. Acxa is a dangerous individual who knows too much about him, frankly. He’s already coming up with a plan to prevent her from revealing all his kinks to Shiro when a cybernetic hand comes down on his shoulder and stops all his thoughts in their tracks with a gentle squeeze, every finger a point of heat through his jacket and bodysuit. Acxa’s eyes narrow and her smirk widens and Keith hates her, truly.

“What can I get you, Keith,” she drawls, her gaze sliding to Shiro, “and your new friend?”

“Acquaintance,” Keith bites out. “Scotch, on the rocks.”

“The same for me,” Shiro says. “Put it on my tab, please.”

“Can do, _sir,”_ Acxa says, placing special emphasis on the last word. Keith grinds his teeth. She winks and walks away, hips swaying.

Shiro notices, because Keith’s life is a series of unfortunate events. “Huh,” he murmurs, hand falling from Keith’s shoulder, “are you two…?”

Keith levels him with a glare. “Not anymore,” he says, “so don’t get any ideas.”

Shiro blinks, and then snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ve only got my eye on you, Keith.”

Keith is silent, because what the _fuck_ is he supposed to say to that? Shiro keeps his distance until Acxa brings their drinks back, and Shiro makes a faint sound of surprise when Keith knocks back his scotch in one go. Acxa rolls her eyes and swipes his empty glass away.

Shiro says, “You can hold your liquor pretty well.”

Keith chuckles. “You say that now,” he says, and clicks his tongue. “Wait an hour or two. Might change your mind ‘bout that.”

Without breaking eye contact, Shiro tips his scotch back, amber pouring down his throat like honey in one smooth gulp. He reaches out, gloved hand trailing down Keith’s side, featherlight. “What if I don’t wanna wait?” Shiro asks.

Keith shudders. This is, objectively, a terrible idea. But Keith hasn’t gotten laid in months, and Shiro is a magnet he finds himself impossibly, inescapably drawn to. His head spins, too many thoughts too fast, spiraling away from logic and settling onto one hazy need. Keith pushes off from the bar, picking his way through tables and brooding patrons, towards an escape.

Shiro follows as if leashed, trailing behind him in a low thud of footfalls and shallow breath. Keith stops only once they’re out of sight, tucked in the alcove of the back door, and drags Shiro to him with a punishing grip on his shirt collar that ends in a bruising kiss. Shiro groans, pliant against him, gasping when Keith’s teeth catch his lower lip and dig in hard, tugging just enough to hurt. Keith kisses dirty, all tongue and teeth and heat, and Shiro matches him eagerly.

Testing the waters, Keith palms blindly at his ass, gloved hand pressing into the satisfying curve of muscle, and Shiro’s answering arch back into the touch is all the answer he needs. They’re both hungry for it. Warm fingers slide into Keith’s hair and he breaks the kiss with a grunt, chest rising and falling unevenly against Shiro’s. Shiro stares down at him with wide, wanting eyes, pupils blown. His cock nudges against Keith’s hip, and Keith tamps down the urge to pin him against the graffiti-stained wall and _rut._

“We should take this someone else,” Keith mutters, eyes flicking to the sickly green digital clock on the wall. They don’t close for another hour. Allura is going to kill him. Keith doesn’t actually care. “Bathroom?”

Shiro sucks in his lower lip sharply. “Don’t really want a quickie,” he mutters. “Kinda wanted you to fuck me. On a bed.”

Keith swears in fervent and frustrated agreement. “My place is too far,” he hisses. “Like, an _hour –”_

“I’m fifteen minutes,” Shiro whispers, already flushed and desperate. “Ten, if I drive fast.”

“Drive fast,” Keith growls in his ear, and steals away with him, out the back door and into the night.

*

Keith only realizes the implications of Shiro living so close by when he sees Shiro’s hoverbike. It’s all sleek platinum and black, with electric blue accents that thrum and glow like Shiro’s arm as he settles himself on the plush leather seat. Keith knows the make and model; he’s seen it in glossy magazines full of things he could never even hope to afford.

Keith tucks himself close to Shiro’s back without invitation, reveling in the tremor that goes through him as their bodies press flush. Keith’s hard, achingly so.

“Sell your arm for this bike?” Keith murmurs.

Shiro revs the engine, and the wheels fold inwards, lifting off the ground with a purr. “Arm and a leg,” Shiro retorts, and that’s all the warning Keith gets before he hits the gas and they go flying down the street, weaving past the cars and under the spinners which whir above them in the constant, complex flight patterns of busy people with places to be, things to do.

They don’t ride towards Keith’s neighborhood in the outer sectors. They ride into the city center. Keith’s palms sweat where they’re crossed over Shiro’s taut stomach, and he leans his chin into the dip between Shiro’s shoulder blades, staring up at the lofty skyscrapers, the billboards blooming with color and sound, the holograms strutting across the open sky like gods made of nothing but light.  

The Garrison Spire rises above them all, shining ice white and noxious orange, slitted silver windows like so many eyes, watching the Grid’s every move. Keith looks away, fingers tightening in the fabric of Shiro’s jacket, and mutters over the dull roar of wind around them, “Didn’t realize I was hookin’ up with a member of the Grid’s elite.”

Shiro’s chuckle reverberates through them like an echo of the engine. He’s a good driver, almost too good. “Hardly,” he says. “Don’t go into the inner sectors much?”

“No,” Keith says. “Too damn fancy. Think they’d charge me for breathing.”

Shiro shoots him a sly smile over his shoulder, rounding a street corner sharply. “I’m free,” he murmurs, and pulls into a sloping garage beside a gilded white edifice. If that’s an apartment building, then Keith might as well be living in a Dumpster. There are _balconies,_ overflowing with plants – real or not, Keith doesn’t know, but they spill from each floor in vibrant green vines and neatly trimmed shrubbery and countless florals; shocking spots of color amidst the city’s cold black and white.

The building vanishes as concrete closes in over their heads, the hoverbike’s purr too loud in the quiet parking garage, which is filled with other vehicles locked in golden security holo-barriers that cost more than Keith’s life. Shiro pulls into an empty spot outlined in blue which turns gold with a mechanical chiming sound as soon as they’re inside.

 _Welcome Home, Shiro,_ the tinny voice of a disembodied android woman croons. _Please authorize Guest for entry._

“Thank you, Eva,” Shiro says, cutting the engines as the bike’s wheels unfold and settle on the ground. “Authorizing Guest Keith for entry.” As soon as he says it, the blank concrete wall directly in front of them fizzles away to reveal a softly glowing elevator.

Keith is too shocked to do anything but snort. Shiro gives him a look, and shakes his head, mouthing, _Really?_

 _Entry,_ Keith mouths back, and then almost falls off the bike when a blue hologram of a woman in a tight suit appears in the elevator, waiting expectantly with a hand on her hip.

He’s never seen an Eva in person, but he’s seen the ads, of course. She’s a state of the art AI equipped to be all the security personnel a company or home would ever need. It’s like replacing all of the cameras, alarms, sensors, locks, and guards with a single executable program more complex in design and competent at its job than any other. Eva is a creation of the Garrison, which was a surprise to no one, least of all Keith.

This Eva has a blonde bob with bangs, full lips, rectangular glasses, and dark doe eyes. Her prettiness is a trap, meant to lull one into a false sense of security with her innocent human appearance. She’s just a collection of nanoparticles supported by lines of code that all have the underlying purpose of keeping intruders out and protecting company assets at all costs.

She directs the cool, professional smile of a secretary at them, and when Keith follows Shiro cautiously into the waiting elevator, she shakes Shiro’s left hand. Eva is collecting his fingerprint, Keith realizes. He glances around, and as the elevator doors close with a metallic ping, the unease of a trapped animal ripples through him, anxiety mounting as Eva gives the elevator permission to ascend.

Shiro shifts closer, and Keith mutters, “Bet the crime here is at an all time low thanks to her.”

“She is kind of creepy, isn’t she,” Shiro murmurs. Eva stands beside the elevator keypad, impassive and silent. Keith doesn’t answer and Shiro sighs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you off, I know this place is, uh...a lot.”

“No kidding,” Keith says darkly as the elevator emerges into a glass-plated tube, giving them a full view of the Grid. It’s a painstakingly organized world of black glass and blacker asphalt, all illuminated in the relentless glow off too many lights in too many colors.

It’s beautiful, Keith supposes, in the way that a good con is beautiful. You have to admire the depth and thought of the manipulation, the false promises so sweet that everyone latched onto them without hesitation, and only discovered they would never come true when it was too late. The Grid, with its concentric circles of zones and interlocking streets spreading ever outwards, looks like a spiderweb, with the Garrison Spire at its center.

Keith shakes himself. He looks up at Shiro. “You gonna tell me what the hell you do for a living to afford this place?”

Shiro frowns, and at first Keith doubts he’ll answer, but then he sighs and says, “I’m ex-military. I was an officer, high up enough, I guess...and once my service was over, the Garrison paid me a lot to keep quiet and stay close. Can’t say I’m complaining.”

Not what Keith was expecting, but it explains the arm. And the muscles. He takes a step closer to Shiro, and Shiro’s intake of breath is loud in the quiet elevator. “Blood money, huh?” Keith runs a finger down the length of Shiro’s heaving chest. “You must be pretty good with knives, yourself.”

Shiro’s breath is warm on his cheek. “Pretty good, yes,” he murmurs, “but I’m better at hand-to-hand combat.”

“Are you, now,” Keith retorts, backing him up into the corner opposite Eva, wanting to escape her eyes. Shiro goes, breath labored and lips parted. “How about following orders? Any good at that?”

Shiro hums, low and pleased. “Yes, sir,” he says.

All of Keith’s blood goes to his dick. He can’t even be mad at Acxa anymore.

“Fuck,” Keith spits, fisting a hand in Shiro’s white forelock of hair and yanking him into a kiss – or trying to.

He’s stopped by a strong metal palm on his chest, and Shiro shakes his head, nodding to Eva, who watches them with empty but steady eyes. “She’s not so good at differentiating between kissing and attacking,” he explains. His head tilts. “And something tells me the line between the two is very blurred, with you.”

Keith shoves a thigh between Shiro’s legs and he chokes on a whine, eyes flying wide as Keith leans in. “Dunno where you got that idea,” he says, before stepping out of Shiro’s space, casually adjusting himself, and leaning back against the side of the elevator with arms folded. Shiro’s stunned gaze drops down to the visible line of Keith’s cock in his ripped black jeans, and Keith shifts so that it’s even more obvious. In his peripherals, he sees Shiro gulp.

“Floor 117,” Eva announces in her toneless, underwater voice. The doors slide open. Shiro grabs Keith’s wrist in his cybernetic hand and hauls him out of the elevator, into a pristine white hallway illuminated by hazy blue fluorescents. It’s dizzying how strong Shiro’s grip is, and Keith lets himself be led down the hall to Suite 9875, vision narrowing with every step.

The alcohol finally hits him as soon as Shiro gets the door open; Keith vaguely registers Eva’s voice announcing their arrival, the door clicking shut behind them, Shiro’s lips moving in blurry words he nearly hears, and the luxurious apartment around them; but he’s only focusing on Shiro, Shiro’s hand locked around his wrist, Shiro leading him down the hall, Shiro’s arms wrapping around him and sending them both tumbling onto a bed that must be inspired by a cloud. It’s soft, impossibly soft in comparison to Shiro’s hard muscle and harder dick, smooth as velvet and a satisfying weight in Keith’s gloved hand. His cock is thick and uncut and Keith spends too long rubbing his thumb over the flared pink head and stretching foreskin until precum makes it slick.

Shiro chokes on a moan, propped up on his elbows. Keith has no idea how he got Shiro’s pants off and bodysuit unzipped, but now that he has, he’s not thinking about it. He narrows his eyes at Shiro’s dick, twisting his wrist until Shiro throws his head back, exposing the thick line of his throat. Keith lunges forward, catching delicate skin between his teeth, and Shiro moans louder, hips jumping up to grind into his loose fist. The temptation to shift is there, but Keith shoves it down; he has no desire to make Shiro bleed.

Keith backs off after he’s content with the darkening bruise on Shiro’s tan skin, and it’s only then that he notices the countless lines of scar tissue revealed by the parted V of the zipper down Shiro’s front. Brow furrowing, Keith tugs the bodysuit off entirely, Shiro’s breath hitching when Keith’s hands slip under him, the rough leather of his gloves sliding over Shiro’s lower back and ass. Shiro kicks it off the rest of the way, and Keith crawls over him, noting the scars one by one, head tilted in morbid fascination.

“Hell did they do to you in the military?” Keith mutters, touch lingering over one of the nastiest, a ragged, raised, almost star-shaped mark wider than his palm, low on Shiro’s side. If Keith had to guess, he’d say it was a chemical burn. “Throw you into a meat grinder?”

Shiro closes his eyes briefly, and Keith sees his throat work. “Something like that,” he whispers.

Keith sits back on his heels, disliking the line between Shiro’s brows and the sudden tension in his body. “You got a condom?” Keith asks.

Wordlessly, Shiro’s eyes crack open to lean over to his nightstand, rummaging in the second drawer before tossing Keith a blue box and a bottle of generic brand lube. Both have been opened, and used. Heat ignites in Keith’s belly, and he refuses to call it jealousy. Keith sets both the box and bottle aside to unbutton and unzip his jeans, shrugging off his leather jacket and letting both fall carelessly to the floor. Shiro’s gaze settles hot and heavy on Keith’s biceps and lean muscle, the black bodysuit hiding nothing, least of all the bulge of his cock.

Shiro’s brows knit together when Keith doesn’t undress himself any further, but instead rips open a foil packet from the blue box and rolls a condom down onto Shiro’s dick. “Wha –” Shiro starts, and stops with a strangled gasp as Keith sucks his cock down, burying his face in dark, sweaty curls. The carpet _doesn’t_ match the drapes, which is interesting, but not as interesting as the way Shiro’s cock twitches over his tongue, filling his mouth to aching; plush, leaking tip stuffed down his throat. Keith can feel the throbbing heat of him through the thin latex, and he groans, lashes fluttering and cheeks hollowing greedily.

 _“Keith,”_ Shiro gasps, clumsy hands pawing for Keith’s head, his left hand falling into Keith’s hair in a series of frantic petting motions, “fuck, your mouth feels so fucking good, _shit,_ I want –”

Keith pulls off with a messy slurp, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and chin, spit and precum staining his leather glove. Shiro’s face is pink, sweat beading his jaw. “What _exactly,”_ Keith murmurs in a voice as wrecked as he feels, “do you _want,_ Shiro?”

Shiro holds his gaze, and reaches down with the cybernetic hand, its stretch extending far past the limits of flesh and bone, and Keith watches as metal fingers spread Shiro’s ass wide, his legs splaying on the bed, knees bent so Keith can see. “Please,” Shiro whispers, his cock lying thick and spit-slicked and trapped in latex on his slated stomach. The stark, uneven illumination of the neon city through the wide window paints his muscled abdomen in swells of glossy highlight and channels of shadow that Keith wants to trace with his tongue.

He doesn’t. He unlaces his boots and unzips his bodysuit, taking his time, Shiro’s eyes on him with a warmth that echoes the cider and scotch in his belly. He unbuckles his belt and the leather sheath on it, letting them fall to the floor a little more carefully, the wrapped knife hilt peeking out.

“Tattoos,” Shiro says, eloquently. “Huh.”

They run down Keith’s body in esoteric swirls of black and faded red, framing the lines and curves of his chest and hips, beginning just under his jutting collarbones and terminating on the backs of his calves and in the dip of his lower back. Sometimes Keith thinks they look like something man-made, like circuitry or maps; other times something organic, like veins or vines; other times they look like nothing he knows at all.

“Observant,” Keith teases.

Shiro looks like he wants to reach out and touch, but doesn’t. _Wise man._ “Are they mods?” he murmurs, eyes shining with open curiosity.

Keith shakes his head, stroking the thick dark lines between his pecs. “Just tattoos,” he says.

“Mm. A purist.” Shiro’s lips quirk.

“Nah,” Keith says. “Just couldn’t afford these modded.”

_And you’re an idiot if you think I’d let anyone in this city slip a single piece of tech under my skin._

Shiro pauses. “Oh.” His head tilts, appraising. “Well, they look good. Whoever gave them to you knew what they were doing.”

It’s true, Ulaz is the best of the best. “He did,” Keith says. Shiro shuts his mouth, though the shining curiosity remains. But Keith isn’t here to answer his questions.

The night air is cool on his flushed skin. Keith steps out of the constricting fabric, abandoning it with the rest of his clothes, and takes his cock in hand, pumping it slowly while raking his gaze down Shiro’s exposed body. There’s something about having a strong partner that appeals to Keith on a visceral and ineffable level, and it’s probably a Galra thing, but Shiro isn’t Galra. He is, however, strong, with big muscles and a big cock and ample scars as evidence of his prowess at survival.

Although Keith would _like_ to think he’s better than restorting to caveman standards of attraction, he knows he’s not.

Shiro’s pretty, though, too. Strong, and pretty. And obedient. And that appeals to Keith even more.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Keith sighs, half endearment, half warning. Shiro’s blush darkens, toes curling into the sheets, metal fingers digging into his own ass. Liquid courage pumping through his veins, Keith climbs back onto the bed, between his legs, intent but slow. Goosebumps raise on Shiro’s legs as Keith strokes his inner thighs, murmuring, “Look at you, showing yourself off to me, like a good slut.” Shiro bites his lip. “Is that what you are, Shiro? Is that what you want to be for me?”

Shiro is putty under his hands, arching up into every touch. “Yes, sir,” he breathes. “Please, Keith, I want that.”

“Want what?” Keith’s fingers stray close to where Shiro’s spreading himself open; close, but not quite.

“To be a good,” Shiro gasps, squeezing his eyes shut, “slut. For you.”

Pleased, Keith tugs on the tip of Shiro’s dick, wrenching a shout from his throat, and all but tears the condom off. He makes sure Shiro sees him flip it inside out, and then roll the used latex down onto his own cock. There are no shortage of condoms. Keith is just like this.

It’s more of a formality, anyway. People stopped caring about STDs about the same time they stopped caring about the planet.

Shiro doesn’t protest. He shudders visibly, throws his other arm over his face, and hisses, _“You’re fucking filthy –”_

“Says the one exposing himself to a stranger like a street whore,” Keith retorts, smacking his ass light but stinging, relishing the imprint it leaves behind. Shiro groans, lifting his hips up higher like a challenge. Keith takes it, uncapping the bottle of lube and circling two fingers around the tight dusky pink of his rim, letting them dip inside one at a time, just a little, letting lube drip down into him just to make Shiro jolt and squirm. He pauses after a minute or two of this teasing, and says, “Maybe you should finger yourself open for me like a whore, too.”

Shiro’s belly sucks in, and he nods, hasty and desperate, metal fingers sliding downwards. Keith helps him, pouring lube over his fingers until the sheets and Shiro’s inner thighs are sticky with it – maybe it’s too much, but even intoxicated and aching with arousal, Keith thinks it’s better to be safe than sorry, here. Shiro’s metal fingers are thick, so thick that both of their breath catches as Shiro slides one in, his low whine trembling in the air between them. His body doesn’t resist a single inch.

Keith glowers at him, nails digging into Shiro’s thigh. “You do this to yourself,” he accuses, and Shiro’s needy moan is all the answer he needs. “Do you fuck yourself on your fancy Garrison fingers right here in this bed, alone, making yourself come until you cry?”

Shiro adds another finger, and it should be too much too soon, but it isn’t for him. He’s smirking, lips shiny and drool drying on the corner of his mouth. His silver forelock is plastered to his brow in a tangle of wet white strands, cock puddling precum over his flexing stomach. Keith is hopelessly enchanted.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Shiro chuckles, strained, curling the metal fingers inside himself, both up to the knuckle.

Keith sneers, climbing over Shiro on his hands and knees, planting one hand on either side of his head and staring down at him expectantly. “Actually,” Keith says, shifting until he can grasp both their cocks together, “I would. So tell me.”

Shiro’s metal hand stutters, eyes rolling back in his head. Keith works his fist over both of them, and his gloves are gonna be ruined after this, and it’s gonna be so worth it for the way Shiro’s hips buck up, driving his fingers deeper into himself and his cock rubbing all along Keith’s in a delicious slip of hot wet skin and ridged veins and solid friction. Keith lowers his head to mouth at the join of Shiro’s neck and shoulder, teeth grazing old scars, ending the harsh scrape in a soft kiss to the hollow of his throat. “Tell me,” Keith repeats in a whisper, “tell me how you fuck yourself, Shiro.”

“Nngh,” Shiro groans, head falling to the side and pulse pounding under Keith’s mouth, “it’s not as good as this, not as good as you –”

“Oh, it isn’t, is it?” Keith coos, witnessing the darkening of Shiro’s blush, splotching red down his chest; yet his fingers work shamelessly inside of himself, feet braced on the bed so he can rock his hips up into Keith’s touch and his own. “Why not?” Keith presses, tongue flickering over the soft underside of Shiro’s jaw, stubble rasping under each lick.

“Don’t have anyone else’s hands on me,” Shiro gasps, his feet giving a helpless little kick as he finds his prostate, moans bubbling past his lips, as ceaseless as his twisting fingers. “Forgot – what it felt like, fuck, it’s been so long, too long, I’ve been too busy –”

“Busy?” Keith nuzzles into his neck, nails scratching through his undercut. “Busy taking bartenders home?”

Shiro’s laugh is ragged and his expression, when Keith lifts his head to look, is desperation bordering on wildness. “No,” he admits, teeth digging into his lower lip, “just you, I haven’t – I don’t _– ah –_ make a habit of this.”

Keith narrows his eyes. “Don’t lie to me,” he growls. “I saw that box. Half of ‘em are gone. What d’you use ‘em for, balloon animals?”

Shiro scrunches up his nose in obvious embarrassment. “I, uh, I don’t like...messes,” he mumbles.

Keith’s eyebrows have never been higher. His heart is pounding. His vision is dark at the edges, and he can feel his pulse in his cock. “Really,” he drawls, “because it seems to me that’s exactly what you are right now, Shiro.”

He drags a nail over Shiro’s chest, circling around peaked nipples and scratching a red, raised line down to his navel. He squeezes their trapped dicks, taking special care to flick his thumb over the head of Shiro’s cock, and press his thumbnail ever so slightly into the slit. Shiro’s head falls back, and he turns his face into the pillows to muffle his frantic sounds.

“You’re a mess,” Keith tells him, releasing their cocks, “and I haven’t even fucked you, yet.”

Shiro blinks at him, eyelashes sticking together, and moans when Keith yanks on his metal wrist, forcing Shiro’s fingers out of his stretched hole. Once empty, Shiro arches under him, like he’s afraid Keith’s forgotten what he set out to do here, and wriggles until the head of Keith’s cock catches on his rim, puffy from the rough prep. The sound Keith makes is feral and vicious, and Shiro yields to the hands lifting his thighs, hitching them up around Keith’s waist, one leg hooking over Keith’s shoulder as he leans in for the kill.

“Beg for it,” Keith whispers, rubbing his cock over where Shiro’s aching and empty, lube leaking out and onto the wrinkled white sheets.

“Or _what,”_ Shiro gasps, smiling around a moan. Keith gets the sense he likes to defy as much as he likes to obey, and files the information away for later.

Keith stares down at him, his arousal secondary to the need plastered over Shiro’s face and the mouthwatering sight of his uncontrollably leaking cock and gaping hole. “Or I’ll leave you here, just like this,” Keith says, soft and sweet, brushing Shiro’s sweaty hair out of his face with a single, half-gloved finger. “I’ll walk out that door, and you’ll be here, all alone and empty, because you thought your pride was more important than my cock.”

Genuine panic flashes through Shiro’s eyes, sharpening his unfocused gaze, and it’s so unexpected that Keith almost breaks the act, almost stops to ask if that was too much. But the next second, Shiro is shaking his head and wiggling his hips, the picture of contrition, and murmuring, “Please, please, fuck me, Keith, sir, need you, now…”

Keith’s unnerved to the core and doesn’t know why; maybe the buzz of the alcohol is fading. Shoving the wariness away, Keith drags Shiro’s hips to him, lining up his cock and sucking in a sharp breath at the first touch of latex to skin. There’s so much lube that Keith’s cock makes a wet, sucking sound as he sinks inside, but it’s so easy, smooth and tight and _fuck,_ has this always been this good, or is it just Shiro?

Keith tries to remember how to breathe, braced over Shiro in a trembling bundle of strung tight sinew and six months worth of pent-up sexual frustration. Shiro moans under him, low and breathy and _deep,_ and it goes straight to Keith’s cock. “You can,” Shiro manages, grabbing at the pillow with his metal hand like an afterthought, like he needs something soft to touch and hold onto, an anchor. “Keith, _please.”_

It’s more muscle memory than actual thought when he starts moving, hands tight on Shiro’s thighs, gloves keeping his fingers from slipping off sweaty skin that flexes deliciously under his palms. Shiro’s breaths hitch, his cock slapping against his stomach as Keith puts a little more effort into it, calling upon the dormant strength in his DNA he so rarely uses to bend Shiro in half and fuck him like he means it.

Because he does. Fuck, he means it. The bed creaks under them and Keith hopes Shiro has bruises on his thighs tomorrow, spread out in the shape of Keith’s hands. Shiro’s moans take on a startled, rising pitch, legs tightening around Keith’s waist and heels digging into his back, pulling him in, pleading for him deeper, harder, _more more more._ Keith can’t possibly refuse. Not when Shiro is spread out on his silk sheets, staining them with lube and sweat and precum, head thrown back and powerful body thrown into high definition like a wet dream come to life.

Keith’s nails rake into Shiro’s thighs in five lines of fire as he finds Shiro’s prostate, and finds it again, and again, and again. Shiro cries out, hand scrabbling in the sheets for purchase, nails digging into his own palm when he finds nothing. Keith doesn’t think before letting go of Shiro’s left leg to grab for his hand, lacing their fingers together tight and covering Shiro’s body with his own so he can kiss him.

Shiro’s muffled gasp of surprise is lost between their lips. Keith licks into his mouth, not chaste by any stretch but at odds with the brutal pound of his cock inside Shiro, angling to thrust in and out just shy of where Shiro wants him. Shiro bites at his lips, sloppy and uncoordinated, and Keith thinks he was telling the truth. It really has been awhile since Shiro did this. Unfamiliar warmth blooms in Keith’s chest, and maybe that’s what drives him to guide Shiro’s cybernetic hand to his hair, breaking the kiss to whisper, “You can pull, if you want.”

Shiro licks his lips, and Keith dives back in for another kiss, folding Shiro’s legs tighter around his waist, until they’re locked there, keeping Keith close and buried inside. Metal fingers card through Keith’s hair slow at first, lightly scratching at the nape of his neck. Keith purrs and nips at his lip, rolling his hips slower, deeper. He feels Shiro’s cock, thick and hot between them, and ignores it. Shiro’s fingers find purchase, twisting into thick black strands, and he tugs, wrenching Keith’s head back and out of the kiss.

Keith lets out a strangled sound; Shiro’s staring up at him with unbridled want, his grip on Keith’s hair too strong for Keith to break without losing some of it. Keith pants unevenly and squeezes Shiro’s thigh. “I wonder,” Keith gasps to the ceiling, unable to stop fucking him in sharp, stuttering jabs, “how you thought this was going to go when you first saw me.”

He feels Shiro’s groan vibrate through his chest. “I had some thoughts,” Shiro whispers, “but this is better.”

 _“Good,”_ Keith says, mouth falling open as Shiro pulls hard enough to make his scalp burn, and then wider in shock when Shiro leans up and forward to mouth and lick over Keith’s tattoos, painting dark lines darker with the flat of his tongue. _“Ah_ – Shiro, what’re you – !”

Then Keith’s upended on the bed, slammed down onto his back without much actual force, their hands and bodies still joined. Shiro straddles his hips, grinning smug and sharp, and rides Keith’s cock like it’s his favorite toy, grinding down hard as Keith scratches at his thighs. Keith lets Shiro keep him down, pinned by the weight and the sight of Shiro moaning and reaching for his own cock as he uses Keith’s to chase his own pleasure.

That, though, he cannot allow. Keith smacks Shiro’s metal hand away, his knuckles bruising on impact, and takes matters into his own hands.

He doesn’t expect Shiro to come with a punched-out keen of his name and a hot splatter that manages to reach Keith’s fucking _face_ as soon as Keith’s gloved hand wraps around his cock.

Shiro writhes atop him with wordless, guttural whimpers as Keith keeps going, fucking him through it, bouncing Shiro on his cock until he gasps, shakes, and comes into the condom harder than he has in eons.

Lying there, coming down from dizzying bliss, Keith can’t help but wish he’d fucked him raw so he could see white run out down Shiro’s thighs, mixing with the drying lube there. The thought sends another wave of climax rushing through him and Shiro laughs in disbelief as Keith’s cock pulses inside him, falling forward until his forehead presses to Keith’s chest, right over his heart.

Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, Keith lets his hand settle on Shiro’s back, patting him awkwardly. Shiro snorts, bites his collarbone light and playful, and rolls off of him. Keith sits up, but Shiro’s already easing the condom off of his softening cock, tying it off and disposing of it somewhere outside of Keith’s diminishing field of vision.

“Thanks,” Keith yawns, rolling onto his stomach and watching Shiro return to the bed, not missing his gaze flicking to Keith’s ass, then guiltily back to his face. “Hey,” Keith sighs, making grabby hands at him, “c’mere.”

Shiro chuckles, more uncertain this time, and lies back down beside him. Shiro’s neck is ringed in hickeys, and Keith’s too out of it to check his thighs, but he’s confident he left lasting marks.

Shiro makes a face, licking his thumb and rubbing it over Keith’s mouth and chin. “Sorry, you got a little…”

Keith snorts and sucks the tip of Shiro’s thumb into his mouth along with the residual cum, releasing it with a nip and a smile. “It’s fine,” Keith assures, sliding his palm over Shiro’s bare chest like a man obsessed. Maybe he is. Who can blame him? “I don’t mind.”

Shiro just bites his lip and looks away.

He’s not as relaxed as he should be when Keith slings an arm over his waist and snuggles closer to him, sleepy drunkenness setting in like a warm blanket. Keith leaves a messy but heartfelt kiss on Shiro’s shoulder and mumbles, “You okay?”

The tension in Shiro’s body triples, and Keith frowns against his skin. “Yeah,” Shiro whispers, touching Keith’s hair again, metal hand gentle this time. Keith shivers when he rubs at Keith’s jaw with a thumb, fingers closing in around the back of Keith’s neck. “Better than okay.”

Keith hums happily and closes his eyes. “Good,” he says. “Good.”

*

Keith wakes up cold, hungover, naked, and handcuffed.

When he finally manages to pry his eyelids open, the unfamiliar surroundings take a second to sink in, but when they do, his gut twists, gaze falling upon the much more familiar figure seated at the end of the bed, fully dressed in a suit and tie that hides every mark Keith left on him.

He’s holding Keith’s knife in his hands, weighing it with thoughtful malice in each palm, the hilt unwrapped to reveal the glowing violet symbol beneath.

With little hope and all his strength, Keith tugs on his bonds. They don’t give an inch.

Shiro looks up, gray eyes hard and mouth set in a firm line.

“Hello, Mr. Kogane,” he says. “We need to talk.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ironically, this story now becomes a slow burn ;D enjoy! 
> 
> thank you for your comments and support, I adore y'all and I'm so happy to be able to share this wild world with you guys. 
> 
> also....i love that we now have so many solid female characters....and ur damn right i'm gonna write them as much as possible in this fic.....

“What is this?” Keith demands, not allowing any of the tangled emotions in his chest to show on his face. “What are you talking about? Why am I –”

Shiro holds a metal finger up to his lips, and his expression tells Keith he’ll shut up if he knows what’s good for him. 

“Don’t play dumb with me, Keith,” he says. “Because you’re not dumb. You are, in fact, very, _ very _ smart. You’d have to be to more or less successfully evade the Garrison Corporation for six years after managing to steal some of their most valuable intel and murder five of their people. Either that, or you had help. Maybe both.” Shiro runs his thumb over his blade’s violet symbol. “Personally, I think both.”

Keith’s jaw clicks shut. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, _ fuck.  _

Shiro tilts his head, searching Keith’s gaze. “I’m a little disappointed,” he muses. “I doubted luring you into a maximum security building in the Grid’s heart would actually work. Apparently alcohol and your dick thought otherwise.”

Keith’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing. Shiro hadn’t even bothered to cover him with a sheet, so there he sits, bound by what feels like military grade cuffs, dick out; the harsh ache in his head and hips a constant reminder of his no-good-very-bad choices. 

To stop focusing on his sad situation, Keith tries to redirect his attention to scrutinizing Shiro. His dark gray suit looks expensive and custom-tailored, but it’s unmarked, no lapel pin or cufflinks to clue Keith in on any affiliated company. Shiro mentioned Garrison Corp, but he said  _ their _ intel, not  _ our.  _ Yet, he’s doing their dirty work. And he lives in an apartment fit for a CEO. His tie is purple silk with silver embroidery, for fuck’s sake.

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “Is there cum on my face, or is there another reason you’re squint-glaring at me?”

Keith’s bound hands curl into fists. “You’re a fucking bounty hunter,” he snarls. 

Shiro’s surprise is fleeting, followed by a cool smile. “Well,” he drawls, “that’s certainly one name for it.”

Keith regards him with cold disdain. “You fuck your way to all your targets?”

At this, Shiro frowns, and stands, setting Keith’s knife down on the coffee table at the end of the bed and shaking his head. To say Keith does not appreciate being bound, naked, and helpelss while a large man in a suit circles the bed would be the understatement of the century. The defensive curl of his legs is an instinctive response, and it makes Shiro pause mid-pace. 

“No,” Shiro admits. “Usually, I just hunt them down and corner them in their home, in a dark alley, in the Wastelands, et cetera. But I’ve been hunting you for too long to risk a possible escape or retaliation from your...friends.” He nods to the knife and Keith swallows. “I needed a more private venue for you. Besides, the Garrison wants you alive. Understandable, considering how much you stole from them.” He clicks his tongue. “Would you like to take a guess as to how much they’re paying me for you?”

Keith glowers. “No. But I think you’re going to tell me anyways.”

“Mm.” Shiro pauses, arms folded, in front of the window. “Your bounty, Keith Kogane, could buy this entire building, the copyright to the Eva software, and then some.”

_ Jesus.  _

“So it really is blood money,” Keith mutters. “Bastard.”

“Thought I was a slut, but, whatever you say,” Shiro counters, turning back to face him. “And I didn’t lie. I  _ am _ ex-military. Just...could never quite step away from the job completely.” His prosthetic fingers flex. “And the Garrison didn’t want me to.”

“Still haven’t told me why I’m handcuffed to your bed,” Keith growls. “Without clothes.”

“First, it’s a guest bed, not mine. I expected you would make a mess, and I was correct.” Shiro shrugs. “Second, you  _ are _ a pretty good fuck,” he says. Keith recoils, and Shiro’s frown deepens. “I’m just enjoying the view, don’t worry. Letting you touch me was a one-time offer, and I think it’s safe to say the same holds true for you.”

Unfortunately, it does not. Keith still finds Shiro  _ horribly  _ attractive. Albeit in a much more villainous and dangerous way than before, which is somehow both better and worse. Keith would still fuck him. Repeatedly. It’s a sad state of affairs. 

But what Keith says is, “If you so much as breathe on me, I’ll bite your dick off.”

Shiro’s brows lift. “Changed your tune from last night, huh?” 

“So did you,” Keith snaps. 

Shiro chuckles. “Fair.” He picks up Keith’s knife again, and Keith bristles. “How long have you had this?”

Keith stares at him. “Veto,” he says.

“You don’t get vetoes,” Shiro informs him, tone taking on a warning edge. “Answer the question, Keith.”

“Give me my  _ clothes,” _ Keith spits. “And if you’re going to deliver me to the Garrison, I don’t see why you didn’t just go ahead and do that in the first place. The Spire is, what, a mile away? Less? Time’s a wastin’, Shiro. If that’s even your name.”

Shiro hesitates. “It’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid,” he says. “The bounty isn’t just on your head. They want the intel you stole.”

“Are you saying they hired you to torture it out of me?” Keith hisses, tugging uselessly at his restraints again. 

Shiro purses his lips. “Better me than the Galra,” he says. “Assuming you haven’t told them everything you know, already.”

Keith’s face twists in fury. “Oh, because you think I’m one of them?” 

“Are you?” 

Keith sneers. “I don’t know, why don’t you tell me? I think you saw everything last night.”

“Well, not everything…” Shiro says, gaze drifting downwards. 

Keith’s legs lock together, curling under himself. “Give me,” he bites out, “my clothes. Or I won’t tell you jack shit.”

Shiro is quiet for a moment, then he says, “Alright. Will you bite my dick off if I put your pants on?”

“I can put them on myself,” Keith snaps. “Uncuff me.”

Shiro rolls his eyes. “I’ve seen this movie before. No thanks.”

“I  _ will  _ bite your dick off,” Keith warns as Shiro reaches for his discarded jeans. The threat makes no sense, but blood is roaring in his ears. 

Shiro stops, exhales, and walks towards the bed. Keith squirms away as best he can, only to freeze when warm hands settle on the cuffs. “Be on your best behavior,” Shiro murmurs, “or you won’t like the consequences.”

“Fine,” Keith mutters, and could cry in relief when the cuffs release, leaving his hands blessedly free. He lets them fall limply to his sides, blood rushing into the numb pins and needles of his fingertips, and moves to the side of the bed at Shiro’s watchful direction. Shiro hands him his jeans, taking a careful step back as Keith tugs them on with painstaking slowness.

“Your jeans aren’t that skinny,” Shiro mutters. “Hurry up.”

Keith tugs them on in a second, leaps up from the bed, and darts out from under Shiro’s reaching arm, towards his knife on the coffee table. He gets his hand around the hilt by some miracle of desperation and adrenaline, and then a solid punch to his kidney sends him stumbling forwards, nearly upending the coffee table. 

He whirls on his heel but it’s an uneven turn; he’s still winded by the hit, and comes face to face with Shiro, whose arm glows brighter than before and who doesn’t hesitate to make a grab for Keith’s wrist, trying to disarm him. Keith twists a millisecond earlier, driving the knife blade down into Shiro’s chest.

The blade meets unexpected resistance, and as the suit tears, Keith sees the telltale black gleam of a Kevlar vest. 

Unyielding metal fingers dig into Keith’s jaw, forcing his head up. Shiro wrenches the knife out of Keith’s hand and his suit, and when Keith tries to break free again, he’s met by a searing burst of pain along the right side of his face, so close to his eye that he’s momentarily blinded by the bright white heat.

He thinks he makes a noise, a strangled cursing cry, and Shiro flips him face-down onto the side of the bed, cuffing his wrists behind his back none too gently. The sheets rub against his injured face and Keith bites back a gasp of raw pain, squeezing his eyes shut. Shiro’s weight bears down on him.

“You ruined my suit,” Shiro informs him coldly. 

“Buy a new one with my bounty,” Keith says, muffled in the sheets. They still smell like sex. 

Shiro leans down, and Keith sees the same blinding white glow out of the corner of his eye. He jerks away, heart in his throat, and in disbelief sees that the thing that burned him is Shiro’s fingertip. The metal burns hot and bright as plasma, and Keith thinks, dazedly, that the guy might not be as inexperienced with the prosthetic as he first thought, considering he shoved those same fingers  _ up his ass _ last night without hesitation. 

Or maybe he just likes to live dangerously, but that’s a little too much danger, even for Keith. 

“You know,” Shiro murmurs, lips nearly brushing his ear, “I think I will. And new sheets.” Keith can feel the heat of his finger, so close to his eyelashes that he swears they’re singed; and Keith can take pain, he can, but  _ shit, _ he likes having both eyes, and he can’t imagine that having his cornea seared off would be pleasant. 

“This the part where you torture me until I’m a bloody mess begging for mercy?” Keith manages, and if his voice is slightly strained, then, well, who can blame him? Shiro is fucking terrifying.

(Keith would still fuck him.)

Shiro makes a considering sound. “I would say you’re lucky the Garrison wants you alive,” he muses. “But there’s a reason they want you alive, and by the time they do finally kill you, you  _ will  _ be begging for it. I would have made it quick. Maybe even done it while you were coming inside me, before you even knew what hit you.”

“Kinky,” Keith wheezes, Shiro’s elbow digging into his lower back. 

His kidney still hurts. He thinks _ kinky _ with Shiro might be closer to  _ lethal. _

But Shiro doesn’t burn him again. Instead his fingers fade, and he taps Keith’s jaw lightly with the warm metal. Keith flinches, then freezes when he says, “I’d heard that exposure to pain could trigger hybrids to shift, but never actually tested it. Yellow eyes look good on you. Wonder if we can go for the fangs and claws, next time.”

Keith slumps, his breath shallow. Well, there goes his trump card. “Bastard,” he says again, weaker this time.

“Uh-huh. So you said.” Shiro takes a step away from him, leaving Keith bent over the edge of the bed, wrists cuffed tighter than before. Keith may have issues with authority, but he doesn’t have a deathwish, so he stays put, only moving enough so he can see over his shoulder. He hisses as he does so; the wound on his face throbs like it has its own heartbeat. 

Shiro’s arms are folded, and he eyes Keith with a generous helping of exasperation. His suit is very ripped and very ruined, as is the vest beneath. Keith will take his victories where he can.

“Okay,” Keith mutters, when Shiro says nothing, “let me make this easier for you. You need my intel –”

“The intel you  _ stole,” _ Shiro corrects.

Keith scowls, and immediately regrets it when it pulls on the burn mark. “Regardless, you said you needed it for my bounty. But I won’t tell you any of it. Nothing. So you might as well just turn me in and take half and call it a day –”

“There is no half,” Shiro says, pointing at Keith with his own knife. “You, Keith Kogane, are an all or nothing deal. And I don’t track sneaky little criminals down for months to get  _ nothing.” _

Keith snorts and tells himself life is ephemeral and overrated, anyway. “To be fair, you _ did _ get dick. But sorry to disappoint. Hope pulling out my fingernails at least gets you off. Again.”

Shiro’s expression doesn’t change. “Torture isn’t really my style,” he says. “Especially when there are...easier avenues to pursue.” He looks again at Keith’s knife, pensive. Keith’s stomach flips. Shiro sheathes Keith’s knife on his own belt, and Keith’s eyes narrow to furious slits. Shiro saunters away from the bed and towards the door, and when Keith tries to stand up, he’s startled back down by a sharp jolt of electricity from the handcuffs. 

“What the –”

“Behave,” Shiro says, sing-song, pausing with his hand around the doorknob. “Say, do you like pad thai?”

Keith’s mouth opens and closes.  _ “What?” _

“Nevermind.” Shiro rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and says, “Eva? Execute security measure: Guest Room.”

Eva’s disembodied voice replies,  _ Executing security measure: Guest Room, sir. _

_ Sir, _ Keith mouths, mocking. 

Shiro’s mouth twitches. “There’s a bathroom attached; med tape and disinfectant are in the cabinet. Take a shower; you need it. You still have my cum on your face.” He opens the door. Keith sees a strip of hallway beyond it, and leaps to his feet, only to be sent to the ground by another series of electric shocks. Shiro glances at him over his shoulder, and gives him a little wave with the prosthetic. The door clicks shut. 

Eva says,  _ Security measure: Guest Room is now in effect. Guest Keith, I have been ordered to inform you that any attempts to escape would be inadvisable. This building is one of the most secure in the entire Grid. _

“And  _ which _ building,” Keith snaps, “is this one?”

_ You are not authorized to receive that information,  _ Eva says primly.  _ On behalf of Garrison Corporation and Mr. Shirogane, we hope you have a nice day, Guest Keith. _

Keith’s snarky retort dies on his tongue when the handcuffs release and fall to the floor with a dull thud. He bolts upright, running to the door without thinking, and yanks on the doorknob as hard as he can.

It electrocutes him.

_ That is inadvisable, _ Eva says, unhelpfully. 

“Fuck!” Keith exclaims, clutching his hand, arm tingling and hair standing on end. “Fuck you,  _ obviously _ it’s  _ inadvisable, _ you son of a….” He exhales, hard and through his teeth, and straightens up, struggling to keep calm.  _ “Mr. Shirogane,” _ he mutters, shaking his head. “Swear I’ve heard that damn name before…”

Eva doesn’t answer. 

After a few more seconds of glaring at the offending doorknob, then at the ceiling, Keith storms into the bathroom because he has nothing better to do. It’s cleaner than any bathroom should be, stripped free of anything that could even remotely be used as a weapon – Shirogane was expecting him. 

The thought niggles at Keith’s mind unpleasantly. The whole time...everything that man had done – going to The Pink Lion night after night, flirting, watching, the  _ cherries _ – had been to capture Keith, and Keith played right into his hands. Three years ago, he wouldn’t have been so stupid. He’s let himself grow soft. And now he might die for it.

Keith braces himself on the edge of the sink and braves his reflection. He’s a mess; hair rumpled and sticking up every which way from the sex and the fight. There’s a suspicious dried white crust above his upper lip, which he scrubs off in mild disgust. He has dark circles under his eyes, stark against his pallid skin, and...he digs his nails into the metal countertop. His scleras are still yellow, brightening the violet of his irises. He thinks it’s because of the angry red scar across his right cheek; pain  _ does _ make it more difficult to shift back. 

He slides the cabinet open, fumbling with the medical supplies Shiro had promised. They’re not much, but better than nothing – besides, upon closer inspection, Shiro’s finger appears to have cauterized the wound on contact. It’s a double-edged sword – faster healing, but definite scarring. Keith mourns the days that his face was symmetrical for a total of three seconds before he gets to work patching it up as best he can.

As soon as he’s done, the shower turns on. Keith shoots the ceiling a glare. 

_ Setting water temperature to 98 degrees Fahrenheit, _ Eva says.  _ Setting timer for five minutes. _

Growling in frustration, Keith shoves his pants down and stomps his way into the shower, only to go pliant as soon as he’s under the spray. It’s warm, but not too warm, and the water pressure is perfect. His own apartment’s shower leaves much to be desired, and the water usually runs a rusty, tepid red. This water is clear and probably clean enough to drink, though Keith won’t test that theory.

The soap in the shower is generic brand, but Keith still takes his time washing his hair and rinsing the residual sweat, among other bodily fluids, off of his tired body. 

When the water shuts off, Keith slumps forward against the white tiled wall, brow furrowed. He doesn’t trust any of this. He’s never heard of a hostage situation with a warm shower and medical supplies included. Keith briefly considers Stockholm Syndrome, and decides that wanting to fuck Shiro is not the same as wanting to defend him. He’s still very eager to kick Shiro’s ass and escape, regardless of how many warm showers the guy gives him. And he doubts Shiro would want Keith to grovel at his feet, anyway. Doesn’t seem the type, though he’s clearly got other issues. 

Don’t they all, though?

But maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe Shiro just wants Keith to let his guard down. He needs information out of him, and for now, he’s playing nice to get it. The good cop/bad cop routine is the oldest one in the book for a reason. But Keith’s not going to fall for it. 

He’s been here before, though the conditions of imprisonment weren’t half so luxurious, and he had even less pleasant company than Eva. The faint memory of a dark basement, damp metal, and the hollow crack of knuckles rears its ugly head in the back of his mind. Yellow eyes glare from the top of the stairs, and Keith shuffles backwards in the conditioned terror of a trapped child, chains dragging over the cold concrete and heart pounding in what it thinks might be its last few beats.

But the figure who hurries down the stairs towards him is a stranger, not one of the big, scary Galra who chained him here three days ago and kicked him around and said nasty things. The stranger holds his clawed hands out in front of him, placating, and his golden eyes glow wide and worried under thick violet eyebrows as he kneels down in front of Keith, gaze lingering on the bruises mottling Keith’s skinny arms.  _ Your mother sent me,  _ he murmurs, pointed ears pricked and alert. 

Keith stares at him, heart stuttering in his chest.  _ You know my Mom?  _

_ Yes, little one, _ the strange Galra says, and pulls a silver key from his cloak.  _ After the fire, she sent every contact she could out in search of you. She would not believe you were dead.  _ He pauses, biting his lip with a sharp white fang as he wiggles the key in the lock until it clicks. Keith stumbles to his feet as soon as his ankles are free, and swallows his disgruntled yelp as he’s hefted up and over the Galra’s shoulder.  _ As usual, she was right.  _

Keith squirms in his grip; he may be small for a twelve-year-old, but he’s not  _ that _ small.  _ Who are you?  _ he demands.  _ Where’s my Dad? _

The Galra pauses just before the stairs, and turns his head to blink at Keith, mouth twisting.  _ Oh, dear, _ he murmurs.  _ You don’t know? _

Keith swallows.  _ Know what? Where is he? _

_ My name is Thace, _ the Galra says quietly,  _ and Keith, your father is dead.  _

*

Despite every Garrison-sanctioned psychologist over the past decade who’s claimed that he should, Shiro doesn’t hate the Galra. 

Pinning the blame on anyone, including an alien species who accidentally crash landed on Earth via wormhole malfunction a century ago, is just never helpful, in the end. When people blame each other instead of searching for solutions, they end up with an even bigger mess than before. Thus, the current state of the world. 

But the Garrison will always see him as a damaged war criminal with vengeance on the Galra in mind, and if that means they give him first dibs on their highest paying bounty, he’ll take it. Vengeance would be nice, anyway. Shiro’s just not hellbent on it, and his anger is reserved for a few Galra in particular, not the whole damn species.

In truth, he’d almost refused the contract when they offered it to him a year ago. Apparently they’d hired several other professionals, and every single one had ended up dead or missing, presumed dead. Shiro would rather not number among their failures, but...fifty million credits is a lot of money. 

An absurd amount of money for one person and a standard external hard drive’s worth of intel. And money is the key to both power and survival in this world. Shiro likes both.

Curiosity killed the cat, as they say. But Shiro doesn’t intend to die.

It’s just that, the deeper this case goes, the more intriguing it gets. From the info the Garrison Corporation gave him on Keith Kogane, he’d been expecting someone very different than the man he’d got. Their case file on him describes a nineteen year old boy with poor social skills, a penchant for knives, a lone wolf complex, and a tendency to lash out in physical expressions of anger, presumably as a result of his Galran heritage. 

(Shiro thinks this might be biased speculation on their part. Teenage boys are not exactly known for being level-headed pacifists, human or Galra.)

But the Keith Kogane he found was calm, contained, and more than competent at his job as a bartender at The Pink Lion. He was watchful, too, always wary and on edge; he had noticed Shiro’s presence from the very first night. In addition, his stunt with the ketamine smuggler had proved he was just as dangerous as the Garrison made him out to be, though with an intriguing moral code. 

So Shiro had to reframe his strategy. If Keith was so observant, then he would let himself be observed, encourage it, even, and see where they went from there. Shiro let Keith see him as innocuous, just a lonely stranger in need of a good fuck. He thinks that strategy may have worked so well because it wasn’t all an act. 

But he hadn’t planned to actually go through with it. Shiro wasn’t an idiot; even he could recognize that letting one of the Garrison’s most wanted criminals fuck him was a bad idea. And yet, there he was, wincing as he swung a leg over his hoverbike, the bruises ringing his neck hidden by the high collar of his new suit. 

He didn’t even have alcohol as an excuse. Keith had been much drunker; Shiro had made certain of that. But when the time came, when he had Keith behind closed doors and in the guest bed...Keith hadn’t even tried to shove Shiro down into submission and demand what Shiro knew he wanted. Instead, he’d sucked what little remained of Shiro’s soul out of his dick. And that was the point of no return.

Shiro has no regrets, except that it does feel strange to keep Keith locked up after they’d fucked. Shiro has always prided himself on being considerate in bed, but he thinks this might be an exception to the rule, unfortunately. He hopes Keith at least enjoys the shower. 

_ No, Takashi, now is not the time to think of Keith Kogane in the shower.  _

He pulls up in front of the unmistakable Pink Lion. In the day, its neon display is less vibrant, and the CLUB sign is replaced with a much tamer CAFÉ. The establishment’s namesake remains, a rearing beast rendered in violently mauve spray paint across the brick wall, but Shiro knows who the real lion is.

After parking out front and paying the meter, he heads over to the front doors, noting the sun high in the sky and the hazy brown clouds of pollution overhead. The inescapable heat of the day seeps through his suit, and Shiro quickly ducks inside, sighing in the immediate relief of the air-conditioned room.

There’s a woman sitting at the front desk, her mane of white hair tied back in a neat bun, almost too bright against her dark skin. Her eyes stand out even more — when they flick up to Shiro, they are a startling blue, shimmering with the iridescence unique to the most expensive iris modifications. Her lipstick is as pink as the sickle-shaped tattoos on her cheeks, the defining mark of an Altean. He assumes her pointed ears are hidden amidst the cloud of hair.

“I’ve seen you before,” she says, voice lilting. Her long, pastel blue nails tap against the desk. Each one has a single faceted gemstone embedded in its surface — pretty, and also a useful asset in a fight. He thinks they might be diamonds; otherwise, synthesized opal.

“I usually only come here at night,” Shiro agrees, approaching the desk with a smile. “But I was curious to see how this place changes when the sun comes out.”

She sighs, waving a bejeweled hand. There are bags under her eyes, disguised with artful concealer, but not entirely hidden. “I’m afraid the cafe is much less exciting than the club. Still, we have some of the best chefs in town. I recommend the kabobs. Would you like a table?”

“A table would be great, thanks,” Shiro says. He pauses. Her eyebrow lifts. “I did want to ask...is Acxa in today?”

Her eyes narrow. “That depends who’s asking,” she says. “Acxa doesn’t take visitors, no matter how nice their suits are.” Her tone is chilly. She’s a good employer; one who protects her people. But she also doesn’t know who she’s protecting.

“Princess Allura, how much do you know about Acxa?” Shiro asks, leaning forwards on the edge of the desk. “Because something tells me the heir to King Alfor’s Syndicate wouldn’t employ her if she knew the truth.” 

Her lip lifts, and he catches a gleam of serrated teeth. He’s never understood why most people were more afraid of Galra than they were of Alteans. The Alteans have been here longer, for centuries, and thanks to their chameleon abilities, they integrated quietly into human society, but to Shiro that just makes them more dangerous. They’re wolves in sheep’s clothing, if he’s ever seen one.

Alteans were apex predators on their home planet before they destroyed it, and he doubts that’s changed on Earth.

“You have a lot of nerve,” she whispers, “coming into my establishment and threatening my employees.”

“It’s not a threat,” Shiro says. “I was just curious to know if you were aware of her Galran heritage.”

Allura blanches, standing up so abruptly she almost upends the chair. “I will not allow you to make unfounded accusations —”

Shiro flashes her his Garrison badge, and her eyes widen, uncertainty visible on her face for the first time since he walked in. “I assure you, madam,” he murmurs, “they are not unfounded.”

She exhales, and shakes her head. “No,” she says, “that’s not possible. I have employed Acxa here for —”

“Six years,” Shiro finishes. “The same amount of time you’ve employed Keith Kogane. Is that correct?”

Allura swallows, and looks as if she’s tasted something revolting. “Not Keith,” she whispers. “He isn’t…” She eyes Shiro warily. “Wait,” she says, “he left his shift early last night. Acxa said he left with someone…”

“Princess Allura, I understand this is difficult for you,” Shiro says. “But Keith is a Class 1 felon, wanted by the Garrison for theft of government property and for multiple counts of homicide. I do not wish for you to be penalized for harboring a dangerous criminal. Or two.”

She stares at him. “That’s...that can’t be right,” she says. “Keith is a good man. He always comes into work on time, and he protects the customers, and he’s never said a cruel word to anyone — except perhaps Lance, but that’s often understandable and provoked…”

“Let me be frank with you,” Shiro says. “I know that two of your people were ambushed and butchered on the corner of Sixth and Steel last week. Nobody except for you and them knew where they’d be that night, right? But they were still killed.”

“No,” Allura whispers, her eyes widening, “he wouldn’t — you think Keith intercepted my communication?”

“Keith, or Acxa, or both,” Shiro says. “They’re close, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Allura whispers. She sits down. “You work for the Garrison.”

“Yes,” Shiro says. “They sent me for Keith.”

Her lips press together in a thin line. “I assume you have him.”

“I do,” Shiro says. Her gaze flickers, and she looks away. She’s conflicted. It’s interesting. “I need to ask Acxa a few questions, Princess Allura, but I wouldn’t presume to sneak behind your back here. Do I have your permission?”

She exhales, pained, and nods. “Her shift starts at seven, but I can call her in early,” Allura says. “Will I have to find a new bartender?”

“I hope not,” Shiro says. “So. How about that table?”

*

Lance likes his job, all things considered.

All things being, y’know, the world ending and all that. He saw it coming, sure, but Lance prefers to be an optimist when he can help it. Optimists are a rare breed, these days. Hard to look on the bright side when the sun is red through a paper-thin ozone layer and an impenetrable cloud of pollution and dust. 

Makes for pretty sunsets, anyway.

Lance does miss the rain, and the ocean; both are a little too toxic nowadays for him to consider risking it. He likes having skin, and he works hard to keep said skin smooth and shining despite the godawful dry heat. It never made sense to him that the Grid ended up in the desert. You’d think global warming would’ve made all the deserts inhospitable. 

But, in the end, when the Earth decided she’d had enough of humanity’s shit, it was the hurricanes, tornadoes, floods, mudslides, electrical storms, blizzards, earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions, pollution, and nuclear power plant leaks that did it, not the heat. Dust storms are practically tame in comparison, and the monsoons have always been violent storms, watering the desert at the end of each summer like clockwork.

Besides, humans are kinda like cockroaches, when they wanna be. They can survive far more than they should be able to. 

Sometimes, Lance wonders if the Galra and Alteans would have fared as well on their own. He doubts it, considering they both fled their planets for new homes after they’d similarly exhausted their resources and upset the delicate balance of life. He’s sure they would leave Earth now, if they could. But by some cruel stroke of fate, their wormholes dumped them on a planet that is not only devoid of harvestable fuel as far as anyone can tell, but is so far from anywhere else capable of supporting life in the Universe that, without the fuel they need for their ships, they’d die tens of thousands of light years away from their destination.

Their ships must be rusting away at the bottom of the rising sea at this point. The Galra and Alteans gave up trying to find a new home a long time ago — Earth is their home now, even if it was the humans’ first. They still keep some of their old ways, of course. Galra still love hierarchies and militaristic order and control; Alteans still love royalty, luxury, and science or alchemy, whatever it is. Allura won’t explain it to him, no matter how many expensive bouquets Lance buys for her. To be fair, synthetic greenhouse flowers leave something to be desired compared to the real deal. Maybe he should try one of Hunk’s cupcakes next time.

Speaking of which…

Hunk is eying him with the fond but firm exasperation of a man who has been forced to wait on Lance and his wistful daydreams one too many times.

“Lance,” Hunk says. He can sound frighteningly like Lance’s Mama when he wants to. 

“Yeah?” Lance bats his eyelashes hopefully. Hunk heaves a sigh. “Alright, alright. I was just thinking about bribing Allura with food. I’m gonna pitch the idea to Pidge later. We might be one step closer to figuring out the secrets of Altean alchemy, Hunk!”

“Mhm,” Hunk says, and shoves a platter of salads into his arms. “Go. You’re the one who’s supposed to be waiting on tables, not the other way around.”

“Oh, hardy har,” Lance grumbles. The salads are, as usual, as aesthetically pleasing as salads made in an era of synthesized foods can be. “Who are these for, again?”

“I deserve all of your tips,” Hunk mutters under his breath. “Tables 3, 6, 14, and 17.”

“17?” Lance frowns. “Who’s sitting in the private booth?”

“You know I can’t legally answer that question,” Hunk deadpans. He pauses. “It’s the guy Keith asked us about a few nights back, I think. Looks like him. How many huge guys with silver hair, nose scars, and a military grade prosthetic do you think there are in this city?”

“Probably at least three,” Lance says.

Hunk can’t argue with that. He shrugs. “Anyway, he’s waiting on his salad, Serrano.” He smacks Lance’s ass, and Lance gets going with a yelp. Hunk shoots him a salute when Lance shoots him a glare over his shoulder before pushing through the kitchen doors and into the restaurant.

They have plenty of Altean customers during the day, mostly distinguished old ones who refuse to let the infernal daytime heat and dust stop them from living their lives the way they used to. There are some human customers like that, too. There’s also Pidge and sometimes Matt, who try to stop in at least once a day for some coffee, and of course Coran, who avoids his administrative work as best he can by hiding behind the tallest sandwiches they can make him. Allura lets him, because he’s a friend of her father’s, and has always been a bit of a kook.

Lance serves the salads to each table with a smile, collecting a few more orders on his tablet as he goes, before finally reaching the private booth. The private booth creeps him out. Like every employee here, he knows that The Pink Lion often serves as a front for Alfor’s Syndicate. The members usually have meetings here, whether it be during the day or night. It’s rare to have only a single person, a human at that, in the private booth. But Allura must have vetted him...Lance exhales, trying to convince himself that trusting Allura hasn’t failed him yet, and presses his thumbprint to the door scanner.

The doors hiss as they open, and the booth’s occupant looks up with mild surprise from his tablet, which he was tapping away on. He sets the tablet into sleep mode and gives Lance a small, secretive smile. “Ah,” he says, “my salad. Thank you.”

“Sure thing,” Lance says, sliding the plate down to him with learned grace. “Are you ready to order your main, sir?”

The man’s mouth quirks and Lance isn’t sure why. “Yes,” he says. “How are the kabobs?”

“They’re a house special, sir,” Lance says. “Any preference in meat?”

He chuckles. Lance does not like this man, but he can’t say  _ why.  _ He just knows the hairs on the back of his neck have been standing on end since he walked in. 

“Just as long as it’s not lizard,” he says. “I  _ am _ partial to jackrabbit.”

“Jackrabbit it is, then,” Lance says, making a note on his pad. “How about some chicken?”

“Sounds good.” The man inclines his head. “And a black tea, please. Iced.”

It’s odd that he feels the need to specify. No one drinks hot tea during the day. It’s well over a hundred degrees out there, and it’s not even noon. 

“Can do!” 

Lance turns on his heel to go, only to freeze when the man says, “Do you know a man who works here named Keith Kogane, by any chance?”

Lance turns back around. The man’s expression is impassive; Lance realizes that’s why he finds him so unnerving. He can’t read him at all, and Lance can read pretty much everyone.

Usually, this only happens with androids. But this guy is either a human with a killer poker face, or a brand-new, terrifyingly advanced model.

“Keith?” he ekes out. “Uh. Yeah, sure. Why do you ask?”

The man shrugs, looking down. To Lance’s disbelief, his cheeks turn faintly pink. “Just wondering,” he says. “I find him very.  _ Interesting.” _

Lance opens his mouth and closes it. “Well,” he says, “Keith is pretty interesting, I guess. He’s definitely got that whole moody and mysterious vibe goin’ on.”

The man looks up shyly. “Yeah? So...that’s not just a front?”

“We’re not that close,” Lance apologizes. 

Lance has cried into Keith’s shoulder on the floor of his shitty apartment after one too many shitty beers not once, not twice, but at least five times. Every single time may or may not have been over Allura. Not to mention, that one sloppy drunk makeout session in the back of Lance’s spinner like five years ago. Keith almost punched him in the face a second before, so Lance had kissed him, because he didn’t need another black eye, and Keith didn’t need another fight. It was simple diplomacy. 

Nothing ever came of it, except that Keith mostly stopped trying to punch him after that, and let Lance drive them out to the desert, where they sat on the hood of his spinner and Keith told him a few things about why he was the way he was. Just a few. Lance knows Keith still hides things, but it’s not his place to pry. They all have their secrets, their fuck-ups, their regrets. Lance doesn’t need to know Keith’s to consider him a friend. And  _ friend _ is not a title given lightly in the Grid. 

“Oh,” the man says. He doesn’t buy it.  _ Coño carajo. _ “Really? Princess Allura told me you’ve worked here even longer than Keith…”

_ Princess? Does he know who she is? What the hell is going on, here?  _

“I mean, we talk sometimes,” Lance hedges. “I know he was born local, somewhere out in the desert. He’s wicked fast and good on a hoverbike, one of the best hovercyclists I know. He doesn’t say too much, and when he does he’s kinda blunt and harsh sometimes, but he’s a good guy. Not so sure he’s really, uh...into the dating scene, though.”

The man tilts his head. “So...he and the other bartender, Acxa…?”

Lance frowns, taking a step closer to the door. “She’s an old flame,” he mutters. “They’re on and off, last I checked. Off for a while, now...sorry, what was your name?”

“Shiro,” the man says. His smile is charming. Lance, as a fellow charmer, immediately trusts him even less. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lance Serrano.”

Lance blinks rapidly. “Uh,” he says. “Did Allura make the introductions for me…?”

“That she did.” Shiro leans back in his chair, salad untouched. “She’s a fine young woman, Princess Allura. I find it very curious that no dashing Altean has swept her off her feet, yet. Don’t you think?”

Lance swallows. “Uh-huh,” he says. “Allura’s more focused on business than pleasure, sir.”

“Oh, I’m sure she is,” Shiro drawls, gesturing to their surroundings. “Look at this place! She’s really made a name for herself. You must admire her, hm?”

“Yes,” Lance whispers, “yes, I do. I better get back to give the kitchen your order, sir –”

“Of course,” Shiro says. His smile is gone. “Thank you, Lance.”

Lance doesn’t breathe until he’s returned to the kitchen and shoved Shiro’s order into Hunk’s gloved hands. “Uh, buddy?” Hunk says, brow furrowed. “Everything good? You sound like you just ran a marathon.”

“Ran the gauntlet, more like,” Lance mumbles. “Oh boy, I don’t like that guy. No, siree.  _ Shiro,  _ Hunk. His name is Shiro, and he asked me about Keith.”

Hunk’s eyebrows stay furrowed. “Okay? How is that a bad thing? Keith  _ did  _ seem sort of, you know, into him…”

“Don’t let him near Keith,” Lance hisses. Hunk’s eyes widen. “You hear me?”

“Um,” Hunk says, and sets aside the order, his eyes widening further, this time in horror. “That...that might be a problem. I think Keith went home with him last night.”

Lance braces himself against the nearest wall. “He did  _ what?!” _

“I wasn’t on duty at the time!” Hunk exclaims. “But I think Acxa mentioned...oh, this is bad, Lance. If you’re right, and this guy is up to something, and he took Keith home…”

“Keith lives in Sector 15,” Lance whispers. “They would’ve gone to Shiro’s place; I’d bet anything he lives closer to the city center. His damn  _ tie  _ could buy me a brand new spinner engine, easy.”

“Okay,” Hunk says, biting his lip to stop himself from going into full freakout mode, “this is gonna be okay. I’m gonna give this order to the other chefs, and then we’re gonna figure this out. I haven’t used a sick day for years and it’s almost three; I can take the rest of today off and rendezvous with Pidge –”

“You wanna get her involved in this?” Lance whispers. “Hunk, this is some serious shit Keith’s gotten himself tangled up in.”

_ “I _ don’t wanna get her involved, but you know  _ she’ll _ want to be,” Hunk points out. “Besides, her cyberware and quickhacks could come in handy.”

Lance knows he’s right, even if he doesn’t like it. “Okay,” he mutters. “You meet Pidge; I’ll talk to Allura when my shift ends, figure out as much as I can.”

Hunk eyes him. “What, you think she knows something?”

“I think she let Shiro into the private booth for a reason,” Lance mutters. “And I want an explanation.”

“You’re on the clock until five, right?”

“I can make it four,” Lance says. “She won’t fire me.”

Hunk shakes his head. “You’re playing with fire, Lance,” he sighs, but claps him on the shoulder and hurries to distribute the orders to the other chefs. “See you at six in the garage?”

Lance nods, distracted by the memory of the man’s smile, terrible and secretive and  _ knowing.  _

*

Allura may be just over two centuries old, but humans often forget that among Alteans, she is quite young. Coran says the conversion places her at around twenty-two. She keeps this knowledge private; it would not do to have anyone doubting her authority. Being the only child of the founder of the Grid’s most powerful Altean syndicate is difficult enough. The Grid is filled with sharks, and once they smell even the tiniest hint of blood, they swarm in for the kill.

Allura does not plan on falling victim.

She has built her little kingdom with care, carving out a place for herself in her father’s syndicate, seeing to the more clandestine and illicit business while he oversees and expands AlteaTech, the unspoken ruler of the business sector, and Event Horizon, the best Altean club in the Grid. Both are powerful, wealthy, and affiliated not only with Altean communities, but with the omnipotent Garrison Corporation itself. 

The Pink Lion is different. It’s been a well-kept secret among Alfor’s Syndicate for years. If people go digging, they can figure out easily enough that Allura is Alfor’s daughter and heir, but they come here to drink and dance, not to dig. 

Usually.

Her hands shake as she dials Acxa’s number. Surely, the man from the Garrison, Takashi Shirogane, must be mistaken. She’s known Acxa for years. Could she truly be one of them, one of the enemy?   


Allura knows it is dangerous to fall into the trap of thinking in generalizations and absolutes. Her father has told her as much. But everyone also knows that Galra tend to be unsavory characters prone to violence and cruelty. She knows, better than most.

Those who believe that Galra are the way they are simply because of their physical traits are missing the full picture. Alteans have superior strength, sharp teeth, and claws when they wish to, but they do not  _ use _ them unless they have no other choice. They talk and negotiate, like civilized beings ought to. Galra do not even consider diplomacy. Some say they are hardwired for bloodlust and sadism. 

After what Allura has seen the Empire do, she has no trouble believing it. 

Her mind swims with disturbing fishbowl memories of hiding beneath a bed, staring at her mother’s hand, stiff and dripping with blood, hanging over the edge. Guttural voices curl her into a tighter ball, shaking with fear she can taste in the back of her throat. 

Some days, she wonders what they would have done if they had found her before her father’s men did. She does not like to wonder for very long.

“Allura?” Acxa’s voice is groggy with sleep. “Ma’am, is everything okay?”

No. No, it is not. Allura exhales, her nails biting into her palms as she replies in the most controlled tone she can muster. “Would you be able to come in early today, Acxa? I apologize for the short notice, but, if you’re able...I would appreciate it.”

Acxa pauses. There’s a rustling, perhaps of sheets or clothes, and then she says, “When do you want me to come in, ma’am?”

“As soon as possible.”

“But...it’s only three…?”

“Please.” Allura’s voice breaks despite her best efforts.

“Allura…?” Acxa clears her throat. “Ma’am, are you...why do you need me in so early?”

Allura bites her lip. She can’t risk spooking her away. “I’m sorry,” she sighs. “It’s just been a long day. I would appreciate some extra help at the office, and Keith isn’t returning my calls...must still be asleep.”

“Ah.” She can hear Acxa’s smile through the phone, and her chest tightens painfully. “That does sound like him. I can come in, ma’am, don’t worry.”

“Are you sure?” How can this be the right thing to do when it feels so very wrong?

“Mhm, of course,” Acxa says. “See you in half an hour, ma’am.”

The call cuts off and Allura leans back in her chair. It can’t be a betrayal on her part if Acxa and Keith betrayed her, first. Right?

Oh, Keith...she clasps her hands, bowing over them. Her mind refuses to accept the truth Takashi Shirogane told her, even after she’d scoured her confidential Garrison databases and found his name and picture among them, alongside his former title of  _ Captain _ and his current title of  _ Private Investigator.  _

Allura is not fooled by fancy titles and euphemism. He’s a bounty hunter. 

Is Keith dead, then? Her lip trembles at the very thought. Even if he is Galra...and a thief...and a  _ murderer… _

She once witnessed Keith capture an errant moth in careful cupped palms and walk the entire length of the club to release it outside rather than kill it. She has also witnessed Keith nearly stab multiple patrons who threatened the wellbeing of other patrons. Nearly being the key word. He’s never seriously injured anyone. She had always trusted him not to, and he had never failed her in that.

_ Blood puddles and a tall, dark figure is reflected within it, golden eyes sinister in the gloom. Her mother’s scream turns wet and strangled halfway through.  _

Allura’s jaw tightens. She should have known better. The Grid is no place for trust.

“Hey.”

Lance strides in from the restaurant like he doesn’t have a shift to finish and customers to serve. Allura raises her eyebrows. “Hello,” she says. “I do hope you have someone covering you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Lance says, leaning against the desk in an ungainly sprawl of limbs. Allura’s enhanced eyes stray to the broad curve of his shoulders, hugged by the black uniform, and return at their leisure to his face, which is now flushed, and too close to her own.

“Let me guess,” Allura sighs, “you’re about to give me something else to worry about?”

Lance frowns. “I don’t know,” he says. “Should I be worried about the man at Table 17?”

Allura pauses. “What do you mean?”

_ “Shiro,” _ Lance says. “You let him in, didn’t you?”

“You know I must have, yes.” Allura folds her arms. “Please get to the point, Lance.”

“He asked me about Keith,” Lance mutters. Allura’s gut twists. “Allura, I think...I think Keith’s in danger. We’ve got to –”

She lifts a hand. “Lance. Stop.”

His brows furrow, and the hurt in his eyes hurts her. “Why? Do you...Allura, are you saying you know something about this? About Keith?”

“I thought I knew him,” she says. “But I think I was wrong. So wrong.”

Lance’s lips part. “Allura...what do you mean?”

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter, Lance. The situation has been dealt with. Put it out of your mind –”

“No!” Lance exclaims, and she cannot help but be impressed that he continues to be one of the few people who will ever dare to talk back to her. Maybe that’s part of the appeal. “Allura, this isn’t something I can just forget! This is  _ Keith!  _ You know, the Keith who gives us that ridiculous card for our unofficial anniversary every year, with made-up animals scribbled all over it –”

“There will be no more cards, I’m afraid,” Allura says. She hides her trembling hands under the desk. 

Lance’s eyes widen. “Wait,” he whispers, “wait, is he…”

“As I said,” Allura murmurs, “put it out of your mind. This was out of our control, Lance. It is government business. Keith did something terrible, and is finally receiving due punishment for it. That is all.”

Lance takes a step back. “You don’t mean that,” he says.

“I do,” Allura says. “Did you expect me to harbor a criminal?”

“I expected you to  _ protect _ a  _ friend,” _ Lance retorts. “You sound like Hira’s damn hoktril lovers.”

Allura flinches, anger bubbling up inside her. “Lance!” she snaps. “This is nothing at all like that! He broke the law and —”

“Shiro tricked him,” Lance says. “He tricked him and he captured him and he…who knows what he did then, but I can guarantee he didn’t give him due process of law, Princess.” 

She eyes him, unhappy and uncertain. “Due process is a thing of the past,” she sighs. 

Lance’s expression is pleading and his hands are curled into fists. He’s young, too. Twenty-four. So young, yet so ephemeral. He’s a quarter of his way through life already, and that’s being generous. The Grid is inhospitable towards anyone over sixty, unless they’re clever, or rich, or both. 

She shouldn’t be thinking about this, about losing someone else, another friend; another piece of her mismatched little family gone. 

“So that’s it, then?” Lance says. “You’re just going to let them have him?”

“What would you have me do, Lance?” she murmurs. “Risk my own people’s lives to try to save the life of a hybrid who is the likely cause of two of my men’s deaths?”

Lance stares. “Hybrid?” he repeats, and blanches.  _ “Keith’s Galra?” _

“Enough,” Allura says, turning away. “Go back to work, Lance. I don’t pay you to debate the morals of our corrupt criminal justice system with me.”

_ “Allura,”  _ he breathes, “would you seriously abandon one of us just because of our DNA –”

She bares her teeth at him and Lance stumbles hastily away. “I said, _ go.” _

He stares at her, shocked and disbelieving, and leaves the room without a single backwards glance. She knows he’s not going back to work. She knows she probably deserves that.

When he is gone, she opens a drawer and withdraws a faded piece of folded paper covered in scribbled animals. She runs her fingertips over the jagged spines of a porcupine-bear, and tries not to cry.

*

It is half past four by the time Princess Allura sends in Acxa.

Shiro looks up from his third glass of iced tea, and their eyes lock. Acxa’s eyes are dark, gleaming with a hint of copper under the private booth’s warm lights,a shade darker than her brown skin. She does not approach him, but stays near the door, her mouth set in a thin line. Her usual purple lipstick is gone. She holds herself tall and stiff and altogether unfriendly.

Shiro stands, and she does not move, but watches him warily. “Would you like to take a seat?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I would prefer to stand,” she says.

No  _ sir _ from her. 

“Fair enough.” He sits back down. “Do you know why Princess Allura sent you here?”

Acxa frowns. “No,” she says. “Should I?”

“I assume you’re well aware that Keith Kogane is a Galra hybrid.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why would I be well aware of that?”

“I have it on good authority that you and Keith are quite close,” Shiro says. “And I find it very unlikely that a single Galra would find his way into an establishment run by one of the most powerful Alteans in the Grid. Birds of a feather, and all that.”

“What are you implying?” She’s good at acting. No wonder she and Keith made it this far.

“I would like to know a few things,” Shiro tells her. “And in all honesty, I’m getting tired of deception, so I will be blunt with you. Who are you working for?”

She folds her arms. “We work for Princess Allura,” she says. “We’ve been here at The Pink Lion for six years.”

Shiro shakes his head. “Stubborn,” he says. “He was stubborn, too. I think he’ll learn his lesson sooner rather than later, though.”

There. A flicker of alarm and surprise across her face, gone as quick as it appeared. She says nothing.

“Keith is an experienced criminal,” Shiro continues, and withdraws the blade from its sheath. Her eyes widen, and she flinches back. “Do you recognize this? It’s pure luxite.”

“No,” she breathes, glancing from the blade to his face and then back again. “How did you…"

“I’m going to ask you again. Who are you working for?” She’s silent. Shiro’s jaw clenches. “I suggest you answer the question. You may work for Princess Allura, but as of today, I think it’s safe to say she will no longer employ you or Keith here. Not when she knows what you are and what you did to her people. Or was that Keith who intercepted the patrol schedules and offed them –”

“Stop,” Acxa whispers, her brow creased. “Keith knew nothing about that. You don’t...he’s not working for anyone. He’s innocent. If you want a criminal…” She lifts her hands. 

Well, Shiro wasn’t expecting that. “So it was you?” he asks. “You were the one who killed the Alteans?”

She shakes her head. “I gave the order.”

Shiro examines her, more thoughtfully this time. “You’re a Warlord, aren’t you.”

Acxa does not confirm nor deny; she doesn’t have to. 

“But Keith isn’t,” Shiro says. “He’s not a Warlord, and he’s not part of the Empire; neither quite fits. None of the smaller gangs are powerful enough to have supported and hidden him for this long, nor are they wealthy enough to afford luxite weaponry. So, I think there’s a third Galran syndicate.” He lifts the blade, tapping the symbol on the hilt. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” she says.

“Hm.” Shiro sets the blade down on the table in front of him. “Did you know I have government jurisdiction to do whatever it takes to get that information out of Keith?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she snaps. “He’ll die before he tells you anything.”

_ Shit. _ She’s not bluffing. 

“And what about you?” Shiro presses. “Are you as devoted to the cause? Or would you rather I test your theory about Keith’s determination to keep secrets?”

She grits her teeth.  _ “Listen,” _ Acxa growls, “I don’t know what that symbol means, but I’ve seen it  before. I didn’t know Keith was involved with them, whoever _ they _ are; he keeps that symbol concealed. But…I do know something. A name.” 

Shiro seizes on it. “A name is better than nothing.”

She chews her lip. “You have to promise me you won’t kill him,” she says quietly. “Please.”

He shrugs. “The Garrison wants Keith alive,” he says. 

“I’ve heard of you,” Acxa says, and Shiro falters. “You look different now, so I didn’t recognize you at first, but the Galra underground is filled with whispers about Takashi Shirogane. The Champion.” His prosthetic glows with a warning light, and she ignores it. “I know what you’re capable of, and I know Keith doesn’t deserve that. Whatever he did, he did it for a damn good reason. Not for money, not for power, not for a boss. I know that must be a foreign concept to you, but it’s true.”

“Give me the name,” Shiro says. 

“Promise,” Acxa repeats, tone unyielding. “Don’t kill him, and don’t make him wish he was dead; that’s just as bad.”

Shiro shakes his head. “Do you know what he did to the Garrison’s men? Two were  _ mauled –” _

“I don’t care,” Acxa says, turning towards the door. “Give me your word or I give you nothing.”

Shiro can see why they got along. “Fine,” he relents. “I promise I will treat him as well as possible, considering the circumstances. You may be pleased to know he got a warm shower today, and I’m bringing him pad thai from Sal’s for dinner. Happy?”

She studies him, then nods, evidently mollified by whatever she sees. “The name is Krolia,” she says. “Keith contacts her frequently.”

Shiro can work with that. “Any idea where I might find her?”

Acxa hesitates. “Quantum Abyss.”

Shiro’s eyebrows shoot up. “The  _ fight club?” _

“Have fun, Champion,” Acxa mutters. “Try not to get shivved.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, I've figured out where I wanna go with this fic and have a tentative placeholder of 10 chapters, some of which will definitely be longer than others! 
> 
> Also, to clear up any confusion regarding timelines in this AU, it's been a decade since WW3 (a conflict between pretty much all the nations/allies of the world and the Galra and Alteans) ended and the Grid/s was created (The Grids are designated "safe" habitable areas), with the Zones in the Wastelands surrounding them being generally uninhabited semi-irradiated areas. The Galra accidentally arrived on Earth in 2025 via wormhole malfunction around a century ago, and the Alteans arrived many centuries previous (circa 1400 AD) and integrated into human society quietly. Upon arrival, humans saw the Galra as dangerous and would have tried to exterminate them if not for the Alteans intervening, revealing themselves, and explaining the situation: their wormholes accidentally sent them to Earth when they were fleeing their own ruined planets, and without fuel to make their ships travel faster than light speed, the Galra and Alteans alike have no hope of finding another planet to call home. Earth is their last stand, so they have to try to work together to survive there.
> 
> So the current year is about 2125. The Earth is mostly screwed as a result of pollution, radioactive fallout, mass extinctions, and global warming; as a result the nightlife is booming since daytime temperatures can reach an excess of 130 degrees Fahrenheit and dangerous weather phenomena i.e. acid rain, dust storms, electrical storms, etc, is a common threat! Fun times. 
> 
> Updates will (tentatively) be on Thursdays from here on out. I hope y'all enjoy, and as always thank you for the comments & kudos, they make me smile~
> 
> follow me on [tumblr](http://saltyshiro.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/saltyshiro) @saltyshiro  
> 

She wipes the blood from her bruised knuckles across her mouth in a careless swipe, walking through the crowded room with the strategic grace born of years in the ring.

There’s a human man watching her. It wouldn’t be the first time.

His eyes trace her determined path towards the lockers, and she wonders idly how he found her. He isn’t a fan as far as she can tell; she’s never seen him here before. She doesn’t turn towards him, but keeps tabs on him in her peripherals. He’s following her. _Hm._ The fights that night had gone well, but she’s getting older than she used to be and her body aches more than it should. Old wounds flare up again and again, and her joints protest their nightly beatings.

She shrugs the pain away. Joints can be replaced.

If she has to break a Garrison lackey’s neck tonight, she will. Galra age slower than humans, anyway. Fifty isn’t old. Kolivan is older, and he’s just as deadly as always.

Cheered by that thought, she slinks into the locker room, doors sliding open at the tap of her finger across the scanner. She leaves them open, waiting for him to come to her. He does, his brows lifting as he sees her leaning against the wall, arms folded and head tilted down. He’s tall and broadly built; she’s still about half a foot taller.

He’s missing his right arm; it’s replaced by a hefty silver prosthesis which glows a faint blue at the socket, appearing to float in the air at his side. Garrison Corp or AlteaTech, she isn’t certain, but her suspicions rise.

Silver hair but a young face, scarred though it is. He almost reminds her of someone, a face from the past long gone, long dead. But no, his face was kind, open and thoughtful. This man’s face is closed off entirely. She can respect that, even if she doesn’t trust it.

“Are you Krolia?” the man asks.

She’s admittedly surprised he knows her name. “That’s not what most call me, here,” she says.

The man nods. “Right. _Entropy._ A good name for this place.”

She snorts. “Good as any. You got a name, or just a penchant for following me?”

He clears his throat, and has the decency to look slightly embarrassed. “Shiro,” he says, and offers his right hand. She shakes it, unflinching, and his lips quirk. “I was hoping we could talk?”

“Talk,” she repeats, and lets the ‘k’ pop like bubblegum as it leaves her mouth. “Afraid I don’t talk much, Shiro. Especially not to strangers who stink of the Garrison.”

“Ouch,” he says mildly. “Who said I’m with the Garrison?”

She eyes him pointedly.

He sighs. “I used to be with the Garrison. Ex-military. I had a high rank, so they gave me a damn good pension. But truth be told, I washed my hands of them as much as possible years ago. They’re not…”

“Not…?”

“Not the kind of people I want to be,” Shiro murmurs.

His face opens then, just a little. The man strikes her as a snake, but that bit, at least, was true. She relaxes against the wall, considering him. “Not many humans in this city would agree with you, I think,” she says. “What use is morality when you could have power instead?”

“Why not both?” Shiro says.

“Mm.” She steps away from the wall. “I can go another round, Shiro. Do you fight?”

He chuckles. “Sure, if you talk.”

“That,” she drawls, “depends entirely on you. Come.”

He follows her back to the ring like a trained hound. At least the boy can follow orders. Maybe there’s some hope for him, yet.

*

 _She’s good,_ Shiro thinks as he dodges a lightning-fast series of uppercuts. _Better than her son._

The resemblance is unmistakable, both in personality and looks, though Krolia is full Galra. She must have trained him; there’s an echo of Keith in the way she fights, whirling in a flurry of fists and powerful kicks that send Shiro leaping backwards, bobbing and weaving, on the defense as she advances. The yellow gleam of her eyes goads him on, telling him she knows that he can’t hope to beat her, not in her own domain.

The remaining spectators watch them outside the ring, drinking and muttering in the shadows. Quantum Abyss is all booming bass and metalwave, dark sound rippling over them, feeding the hunger in the eyes of the crowd and the ferocity of Krolia’s attacks. Sweat slicks back dark violet and magenta hair where it’s tied tight in a scruffy, short ponytail, but she never falters for a second.

Shiro manages to gain the upper hand for a short while; he suspects it’s only because she’s allowing him to. She dodges effortlessly as they circle each other, around and around, lunging and retreating, bandaged knuckles flashing too bright through the gloomy air. Krolia looms over him, and he ducks a quick jab, countering it with a sharp corkscrew. Surprisingly, his left fist makes contact, slamming into the edge of her mouth and splitting her lip.

The crowd rumbles around them, pressing closer to see their queen bleed.

She spits red and grins at him, shaking her head, cracking her jaw, and pulling back. He follows, adrenaline singing through his veins. The ropes caging them in take on different shapes in the dark edges of his vision – stands filled to bursting, yellow eyes glaring down at him as he crawls through the bloodstained dirt, fingernails ragged and torn.

Hot breath bears down on him, the mechanical growl of his opponent catching and trapping him like a wriggling fish strung on a rusted hook. White light sears through the darkness, crushing him under its weight; metal fingers scrape frantically through boiling flesh and agonized howls fill his hollow head as he lays there inert and numb, bleeding in a hundred places, the back of his skull throbbing.

The dark markings on Krolia’s face look eerily like the scar Shiro gave Keith that morning.

She takes advantage of his moment of distraction, landing a solid hit to his solar plexus. Shiro stumbles, breath knocked out of him, and raises his right hand to shield against her next punch. But she strikes with her legs instead, knocking Shiro’s legs out from under him, and he falls hard on his back. She pins him, only applying as much pressure as she needs to keep him down, which isn’t much. Her blood drips from her lip onto his suit, ruining it. Like mother, like son, apparently. 

“Heh,” she says, when the satisfied crowd cheers _Entropy! Entropy!_

He exhales. “They’re used to you winning.”

“Of course. Been here awhile; practice makes perfect.” She climbs off and helps him up, her claws brushing against the back of his hand. “And they like watching men like you lose.”

“Men like me?”

She turns swiftly, crooking her finger. Blood dries in a line down her chin. “You did well. We will talk. But not for long; I have other business tonight.”

Shiro has to walk twice as fast to keep up with her long stride. She brings him to the bar, and orders a shot for each of them. It’s cheap tequila and it burns the back of his throat; she watches like she’s waiting to see him wince. He doesn’t.

“Talk,” she says.

Shiro nods. “I’ll be brief,” he says. “I told you I’m not with the Garrison anymore; that’s true. But I still have contacts. And I’ve heard whispers lately that may interest you.”

“I’m not interested yet,” she says, and orders another shot.

“Are you interested in the wellbeing of Keith Kogane?”

She pauses, setting the shot glass down hard. Her expression is changed when she looks at him again. It’s vicious.

“If you know _anything_ about me,” she whispers, “then you have a lot of nerve, coming here and saying that to my face.”

“I don’t,” Shiro says. “Know anything about you, that is. Only your name, and that you have a connection to Keith...and that you look a lot like him.” 

“Who told you my name?” It’s not a question, but an order.

“Nobody,” Shiro says. “I follow breadcrumbs. They led me to you.”

“Where is Keith?” Krolia whispers, looking at him. “What’s happened?” 

He exhales hard. “The Garrison is after him; they may have even caught him, but I don’t know why. People are saying he stole something. I thought you might be able to help.”

“Help?” She holds the glass with both hands, now. Her dread is palpable. 

“Help me find him, figure out what happened and why they want him,” Shiro says.

“And why do you care?” Krolia asks, frowning at him.

Shiro looks away. “We were…” He sighs. “Friends.” Curiosity glitters in her eyes and he shakes his head. “The Garrison doesn’t have a good track record of treating Galra, hybrid or otherwise, well.”

“No,” Krolia agrees, “that, they do not.”

Shiro waits. She downs the shot, and sets it down softer, more thoughtfully.

“I will do some investigating of my own,” she declares, “and if what you say is true...meet me in two nights’ time at ten in Penumbra. You know it?”

Shiro nods. Penumbra is on the outskirts, a club in Sector 13 that caters to, well...everyone. It’s not a place he frequents, but he’s not surprised Krolia does. “I’ll be there,” he says. “I owe you a shot, anyway.”

She slides off her barstool and cracks her neck, clawed hands flexing and knuckles popping one by one. “You owe me more than a shot, Shiro,” she says. He’s frozen as she stares down at him, lip curled. “If you’re lying to me, you’ll owe me more than you can _ever_ pay. Don’t forget that.”

Krolia claps his shoulder, ending in a sharp squeeze, and strides away without another word, a third shot glass dangling from her fingers.

Shiro doesn’t have to look to know his shoulder is bleeding where her claws punctured through his already-ruined suit.

He rests his chin on his unsteady hand and, not for the first time on this job, thinks he might be in over his head.

*

Pidge prides herself on having some top-notch problem solving skills.

With this problem, however, she’s at a loss. According to Hunk and Lance, Keith has been kidnapped by a man who doesn’t exist.

“Shiro,” she repeats, and shakes her head, gesturing to the _No Matches Found_ screen in the Garrison database. “Must have been an alias or nickname. Otherwise, he’s not with Garrison Corp.”

“Oh, come on,” Lance hisses, pacing across the garage like he’s been doing since he got here two hours ago, “the guy can’t be that hard to find! He doesn’t exactly blend in.”

“Apparently he does,” Hunk sighs. He’s sitting on Pidge’s sagging beanbag chair, head in his hands. “I can’t believe this. Keith’s Galra. And he might be dead.”

Lance throws up his hands. “He’s not dead! He better not be, anyway. _Dumbass._ Who the fuck goes home with a guy like Shiro, anyway?”

Pidge raises an eyebrow. “From your descriptions, I’d say quite a few.”

 _“Katie!”_ Lance exclaims. “The guy’s a psychopath!”

“Aren’t we all,” Pidge muses, spinning back around in her chair and focusing on her fingers tapping against the keys rather than the gory images flickering through her head of bathtubs full of ice cubes and kidneys, among other things. “Well, at least Keith’s smart. Usually. And he’s a survivor.”

“You think this has anything to do with his dad?” Hunk ventures.

They all exchange looks. “Come to think of it,” Lance mutters, “how much do we really know about that mess?”

“Keith’s dad died in a fire when Keith was twelve,” Pidge says, frowning. “What else is there to know?”

“It wasn’t just a fire, remember?” Hunk whispers. “Keith didn’t just call it that. He called it a _murder._ He said his father was murdered.”

“If the fire was an arson, it should be listed in criminal records, somewhere,” Lance says, eyes lighting up.

Pidge shakes her head even as the gears in her mind turn and whir to life. “Not in the Grid; Keith grew up out in the Wastelands. What was it that he used to say…”

 _“We watched the sunsets over Artillery Peak,”_ Lance quotes.

Pidge types furiously, pulling up her newest maps application and scouring the gridded world. “Sun sets in the west...so they’d be just east of Artillery Peak...alright, that’s Zone 4. Not too populated, so they should be easy to find.”

“Zone 4?” Hunk exclaims. “I didn’t even think that was habitable!”

“You know Keith,” Lance snorts. “Could probably make a life for himself in the irradiated ruins of D.C. if he damn well pleased.”

Pidge chews her chapped lips, scrolling through the public Zone criminal records and punching in filter words as she goes. _Arson, murder, father, child, hybrid_...it’s only when she gets a match that she realizes she never knew Keith’s surname. He never told them.

He never told them he was half-Galra, either, but that’s more understandable.

“Guys,” Pidge whispered, opening the database entry. “Think I found something. Heath Kogane, killed in a possible arson case thirteen years ago.”

 _“Heath,”_ Lance repeats flatly. “Are you fucking serious…”

“Have a little respect for the dead man!” Hunk scolds. “Anyway, I think rhyming names are cute.”

“Says the guy named _Hunk_ – ow!”

After chucking the nearest pen at Lance’s head, Pidge returns primly to reading the monitor. “Heath Kogane, aged thirty-eight, perished late Sunday afternoon as the result of a house fire. Further investigation suggests fire was caused by faulty wiring or a stray cigarette. Kogane’s son, aged twelve, is also suspect –” Pidge stops, chest tight. Lance and Hunk crowd closer. “Is also suspect,” she whispers, “because he was absent from the scene of the crime afterwards, and his body was never found.”

“Keith’s a half-Galra arsonist?” Hunk says in a small voice.

“I don’t believe that,” Pidge says. “Keith wouldn’t. He loved his dad.”

“Yeah, we think we knew that, but we didn’t even know the guy’s last name!” Hunk points out.

Pidge thinks of Keith lifting her up on his shoulders so she could reach the cookies Coran had stashed atop the Pink Lion’s highest kitchen cabinet. He laughs, body thrumming under her, voice light and teasing as he says, _Am I your accomplice in this capital crime, now?_

 _Duh,_ Pidge snorts, tucking the cookie jar close to her chest. _Every short thief needs a tall getaway vehicle._

Keith laughs harder at that, then grabs her thighs and takes off across the kitchen at a sprint. She cackles and holds on tight to her stolen cookies. She trusts him not to let her go.

“Pidge,” Lance says, jerking her out of the memory, “what’s that bit, down at the bottom of the page?”

Pidge squints at the tiny blue line of code. “It’s encrypted,” she mutters. “Now, _that_ doesn’t make sense for a standard arson case…”

“Decrypt it, then!” Lance is back to pacing. It’s hard to be annoyed with him when he’s so clearly anxious.

“You say that like it’s easy,” Pidge sighs. “This is some serious security. It’s gonna take a while.”

“I just had a thought,” Hunk says after several frustrating minutes of failed quickhacks. Pidge eyes him in her peripherals. “If Keith didn’t commit the crime...what if he was taken?”

“You mean...this isn’t the first time Keith’s been kidnapped? And he was actually a kid the first time?” Lance whistles low. “Yeesh. Guy can’t catch a break.”

“But who would kidnap him the first time?” Hunk muses.

Another quickhack fails. Pidge resigns herself to doing this the hard way, and pulls up her cheat sheet, only half-listening.

“Maybe the Galra,” Lance says. “His mom would have to be…”

“What, in one of the gangs?” Hunk frowns at him. “Don’t perpetuate stereotypes, Lance. Maybe she’s a good Grid citizen who pays her taxes and tattles on her neighbors for credits.”

“Who pays taxes?” Lance asks, genuinely confused.

Hunk shrugs. “Not me. Point still stands.”

“You really think _Keith’s_ mother would be an upstanding civil servant?” Lance retorts.

“I don’t think she’d kidnap her son,” Hunk says. “At least, I hope not. That would be a serious parenting failure.”

Pidge enters the last line of code with a triumphant keystroke, and is rewarded by several new lines of text appearing at the end of the entry. “Yes! Alright, so…” Pidge trails off. “Oh, no.”

“What?” Lance demands, hurrying back over with Hunk. “What is it?”

_Official Garrison investigation confirms arson was the work of Empire operatives targeting Kogane as a result of either his marital status with a rival gang member or to gain confidential information from him, as evidenced by the signs of prolonged torture on Kogane’s cadaver. The Kogane child, Keith, was likely present for some, if not all, of the torture, and may have been similarly hurt before and after operatives subdued and kidnapped him. Childhood trauma likely, furthering the Kogane child’s natural inclination towards violence._

_Agents have reason to believe Empire or rival gang groomed Keith to be their main operative and scapegoat in the theft of Project VOLTRON. Keith Kogane is an extremely dangerous Galra hybrid who does not hesitate to use lethal force and has remained undercover for six years; we have little to no reason to believe he is dead. He is the key to both the whereabouts of Project VOLTRON and the identity of the rival Galra gang which continues to evade the law of the Grid. Garrison Corporation offering 50 million credits for live capture and delivery._

“50 million creds,” Pidge echoes, and slumps back in her chair. “Holy shit.”

 _“Natural inclination towards violence?!_ ” Lance snaps. “No offense to your dad and brother, Pidge, but the Garrison are a bunch of cabrones. Keith probably saw his dad _tortured to death_ and all they can do is bash the Galra? Qué carajo…”

“What’s Project VOLTRON?” Hunk asks, nervously chewing on the sad remains of a granola bar. “And why would Keith steal it?”

“Never heard of it before,” Pidge mutters. “Considering this was all heavily encrypted, they’re keeping it under wraps. Whatever it is, it’s gotta be important intel.”

“Could you try asking Matt or your dad about it?” Lance suggests.

Pidge sighs. “Dunno. They’re science officers, not military personnel…”

“You think this is definitely military shit?” Lance furrows his brow. “What, like the Manhattan Project Remastered?”

“Nuking an already-nuked planet is overkill,” Hunk mutters. “Maybe it’s something non-destructive? You know, like a terraforming project, or a repopulation project…”

“Both of those have definite potential for causing destruction,” Pidge says. “But I see what you’re saying. I’ll ask...hopefully without revealing that I hacked a government database.”

“Knock, knock. Why’d you hack a government database for the thousandth time, pigeon?”

They all whirl towards the garage side door, where Matt Holt leans against the metal frame, brows raised. His Garrison uniform is concealed under a rain-splattered brown trench coat, and he tugs his damp light brown hair free of its loose ponytail, shaking the droplets off like a dog.

“Um,” Pidge says. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Project VOLTRON, would you?”

Matt looks like he’s seen a ghost. He closes the door behind him and steps into the room, expression grim. “I only know a few things,” he mutters. “One, is that it’s likely the single most important piece of intel Garrison Corp has ever obtained. Two, is that it’s missing. And three...is that it could save the world.”

*

Keith was unprepared for how boring captivity would be.

“Hey, Eva?”

_How may I assist you, Guest Keith?_

“Go fuck yourself,” Keith retorts, and slumps back down onto the bed. Through the gap in the gray window shade, he can see it’s just past sunset, the faded blue of the day replaced by the inexorable shadow of night.

_I am afraid that is not possible, considering I am made up of 0s and 1s. But I appreciate your care for my sexual health._

Keith lifts his head. “Huh,” he says. “Didn’t know the Garrison had a sense of humor.”

_Humans feel more at ease when AIs are given personable traits._

“And what about Galra?” Keith asks, idly playing with a loose thread while eying the discarded handcuffs on the floor. He doesn’t trust them.

Eva pauses. _I was not programmed for the Galra._

“Right,” Keith sighs. “And the Alteans?”

 _They are more like humans than the Galra are,_ Eva says.

Keith scowls. “Disagree.”

_Why do you disagree?_

“They can shapeshift,” Keith mutters. “They have generally superior intelligence, retractable teeth, night vision, and managed to hide in plain sight while taking positions of power in human society after their wormhole sent them here centuries before the Galra. They’re not like humans.”

_Do you sympathize with the Galra?_

Keith snorts. “You’re recording all of this for Shiro to listen to later, aren’t you.”

_Now, why would I do such a thing, Guest Keith?_

He rolls his eyes. “No. I don’t sympathize with the Galra. I am glad the Alteans interfered before humans committed genocide on the Galra a century ago. I don’t think that’s sympathy. I think that’s decency.”

_Even though the Galra were a threat to humankind and a world already struggling to cope with limited resources and heightened international tensions? Would that not have been the best course of action to produce the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people?_

He flips off the ceiling. “Somehow, I ain’t surprised an AI made by the Garrison is trying to justify genocide.”

 _Galra believe genocide is justified,_ Eva continues, _as evidenced by their rhetoric upon arrival followed by the Shanghai Massacre of 2025, the Sydney Murders of 2026, and the London Fire of 2027 –_

“No, _Empire_ believes that,” Keith growls. “Those were all attacks led by Zarkon, who, by the damn way, is still at large, probably in this very city. It’s no secret he hates humans and believes Galra are the master race or _whatever._ Doesn’t mean the rest of us do.”

_Do you believe that philosophy?_

Keith can’t believe he’s debating species politics with an AI. “I’m sure Shiro would have a field day if I said I did,” he grumbles. “Now, that would be a great headline: _GALRA CRIMINAL MASTERMIND PROFESSES HATRED FOR HUMANITY (DESPITE BEING HALF HUMAN HIMSELF).”_

 _Leader of the Warlord gang, Lord Lotor, is half Altean and still professes that Alteans are lesser beings,_ Eva says.

“Guess superiority complexes must run in the family,” Keith says.

_There is little scientific data to support your theory, but perhaps. What is your family like, Guest Keith?_

“Wow,” Keith says. “He programmed you to talk to me about my family life? Cute.”

_Mr. Shirogane is interested in your background, Guest Keith._

He huffs. “Yeah? Well, _I’m_ interested in _his_ background.”

To his surprise, Eva says, _Very well. Mr. Shirogane is thirty-two years old and was born in Seattle, Washington, USA. He attended UCLA and received a Bachelor’s of Science in Astrophysics while serving in the United States Air Force in World War 3. He quickly rose through the ranks, and was promoted to Captain. He was twenty when Galra Empire forces captured him as the sole survivor of his squadron during Operation Monsoon after his plane went down. He remained a POW until the end of the War two years later. Upon release he was given the highest military honors the Garrison could offer._

“And then he became their personal bounty hunter. Real heroic.”

_He saved many lives, Guest Keith. Despite heavy casualties and prisoners, Operation Monsoon is considered a success, and effectively halted the progression of Empire forces on the West Coast of the United States. If the operation had not been executed, Los Angeles and San Francisco would have certainly fallen to the enemy and truce would never have been reached._

“Well,” Keith mutters, “thank you for your service, Captain Shirogane. God bless America. Or, y’know, what’s left of it.”

_I am sure he will appreciate that, Guest Keith._

Truth be told, Keith wishes he’d never asked. He’s heard more than enough accounts of the horrors in Galra Empire POW camps. Went in when he was _twenty,_ stayed there for _two years._ Shit. The average survival time was under three months. Empire didn’t keep prisoners to keep them alive. They kept them to make them suffer. Suddenly, Shiro’s scars make a lot more sense.

Lasting the good part of three years, World War 3 was short in comparison to its predecessors. Turns out, MAD was no joke. The world’s destruction was mutually assured, in the end, but not without mass casualties and several traumatized generations. Keith remembers the War, of course, but he wasn’t old enough to fight in it and his parents wouldn’t have let him, anyway. They preferred to stay well away from it all, and let everyone see their doomed battles to completion.

But Keith remembers leaning out his dusty bedroom window in the summer of his fourteenth year, watching the fighter jets streak across the smoke and blood sky, roaring like great beasts and breathing the fire of a million bullets, or else opening their weapons bay to release their deadly cargos of SRBMs, trailing blue-white comet tails through the star studded clouds. He found them beautiful. Terrible, but beautiful.

A little like Shiro.

“What did he fly?” Keith asks quietly.

_I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that._

“In the Air Force. Which aircraft did Shiro fly?” Keith stretches on the bed, then sits up and dangles his feet off the edge until they touch the floor. He’d found clean clothes in the dresser, simple gray sweatpants and a white shirt. Neither is really Keith’s color, but he knows not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

_Mr. Shirogane piloted a 2020 Lockheed Martin F-23 Raptor. He was the best in his class._

Keith whistles. “Hot.”

_I am sure the temperatures did get very high inside the cockpit, Guest Keith._

“So, why bounty hunting?” Keith asks, standing up and walking the length of the room again. It’s still ten Keith feet across, twelve Keith feet wide. Just like it was the first twenty-six times.

_It is a lucrative business._

Keith shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t think that’s it. Doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’s motivated by money. Not entirely, anyway.”

_What do you think Mr. Shirogane is motivated by?_

Keith debates whether smashing his fist through the wall would work. He doesn’t want to risk breaking his hand, so he refrains.

“I think he likes the idea of justice,” Keith muses, flicking out a claw and dragging it along the wall as a compromise, leaving a ragged tear in the plaster as he goes. “I think he likes being congratulated on a job well done. Being a good boy. And maybe he likes the safety and authority of the Garrison. They rule this city. Bet it’s nice to have their protection, legal and otherwise.” He shakes his head. “He likes staying on a high horse. He likes violence, but he doesn’t like to think he’s evil; government-mandated and validated violence gives him what he needs.”

_Do you like violence, Guest Keith?_

Keith lets all five claws shift, and rakes them down the wall with a rasp of sound, lips twisting in a sardonic, self-deprecating sneer. “I’m a hybrid, remember? Ain’t it in my blood to like it?”

_Do you think you are evil?_

“I think you’re interrogating me, missie,” Keith retorts, flicking his claws away. “Nah. Evil’s too big a word for me.”

_Would you prefer ‘criminal?’_

“I’d prefer that you shushed up,” Keith says. “I’m taking a nap.”

_Alright, Guest Keith. Mr. Shirogane is due home in two hours._

“Great,” Keith groans, and yanks all the sheets off the bed in a vicious flourish. “Tell him to change the damn bedding, would you? He came all over it.”

Eva is silent. Keith sighs, lays down on the bare mattress, curls himself around a pillow, and hopes he won’t wake up handcuffed again.

*

Shiro steps off of the elevator, thoughts swirling. Eva had updated him on the highlights of the day on his drive home – Keith hadn’t offered much in the way of useful information, but he _had_ asked quite a bit about Shiro himself. He’d asked questions Shiro hadn’t even considered in years.

_What did he fly?_

Shiro shivers, drawing his jacket tighter around himself. He’d changed out of the torn and bloodied suit shortly after leaving Quantum Abyss, and walks down his floor to Suite 9875 in dark jeans, a black Henley, and a brand new bomber jacket, carrying a bag full of Thai take-out and an unopened bottle of the best scotch he could find. His last contract had paid particularly well. Not as well as this one would, though.

He pauses at the door. He _should_ go to the Garrison, tell them he’s neutralized the target for now and see if they’re willing to pay up. But he hasn’t yet. Shiro isn’t sure why. He’s curious, he supposes. And he hasn’t been curious about anything in a long time.

Shiro opens his door and heads inside, resisting the amusing urge to announce his presence. “Honey, I’m home,” he chuckles to himself.

In the shadow of the hallway, a familiar black shape slinks past, rubbing against Shiro’s ankles in a brief acknowledgment of greeting. He spares a moment to stroke her purring head gently, then checks that his taser is online before heading down the hall and unlocking Keith’s door.

Surprisingly, he is not attacked. Shiro blinks, stepping into the quiet room and tilting his head at the unexpected scene within.

Keith is asleep on the bed, clutching one of the pillows to his torso and burying his face in it. It’s not a ruse – his body is relaxed and his mouth is slightly open. He’s drooling. He doesn’t snore, but Shiro can hear each breath, soft inhales and heavier exhales, and when Shiro approaches his nose twitches and he snuggles further into the pillow. He’s wearing the clean clothes Shiro left for him.

He _is_ pretty cute when he sleeps. Shiro will give him that.

The filthy sheets lay in a crumpled pile on the floor. _Subtle,_ Shiro thinks dryly, and activates the handcuffs with a whispered voice command.

He sits on the edge of the coffee table, waiting, as Keith yelps awake, handcuffs clamping down on his wrists and head jerking up. He freezes when he sees Shiro, chest rising and falling rapidly, and then scowls, struggling to sit up with his hands bound. “Oh,” he mutters. “It’s you.”

“Expecting someone else?” Shiro asks.

Keith frowns and looks away. “No,” he admits. “No, not really.”

“No? You don’t think your friends will find you here?”

Keith eyes him flatly. His hair is sticking up every which way. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

Shiro clicks his tongue in disappointment and reaches into one of the paper bags he brought with him. Keith flinches back, and Shiro realizes Keith expects Shiro to hurt him. He raises his eyebrows, lifting out the bottle of scotch. Keith doesn’t relax. He just looks even more wary.

“I remembered you like this,” Shiro says, popping the cork easily and admiring the way the honey-colored liquor shines under the lights. “You have good taste.” He takes a long pull, and holds it out to Keith. “Want some?”

“This your idea of torture?” Keith demands. “Tempting me with my favorite drink?”

“The offer is genuine.” Shiro stands up and walks to the side of the bed. Keith recoils, watching his every movement, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Well?”

Keith’s brows draw together. “Fine,” he mutters, and parts his lips slowly as Shiro tips the bottle into his mouth. His lashes flutter and his throat bobs once, twice, and a third time as Shiro lifts the bottle away, letting a trickle of scotch dribble down Keith’s chin.

Unable to wipe it away, Keith’s tongue swipes uselessly over the dripping alcohol. Shiro retrieves a napkin and the take-out, and cleans Keith’s chin off while Keith glares daggers. His glare falters when Shiro opens a carton of pad thai and snaps the chopsticks apart, plucking a mouthful of noodles from the steaming carton and lifting the chopsticks to Keith’s mouth.

Keith turns his head away, visibly fuming, face red. “Fuck off.”

Shiro shrugs, and takes the noodles for himself. “I was only trying to help,” he says after swallowing, licking peanut sauce from his lips and chasing it with another swig of the scotch. “Chatted with your friends today,” he says.

Keith tenses, a tendon in his neck standing out.

“And your mother,” Shiro adds.

Keith’s eyes narrow and slide to Shiro, slow and dangerous. “I don’t believe you,” he says.

“It’s true.” Shiro takes his time chewing on more noodles. It’s fun to watch Keith’s anger simmer to the surface. “Quantum Abyss really loves her, don’t they? But not as much as she loves you.” Keith’s eyes widen, then, and the glint within them isn’t anger, but raw _fear._ Shiro sets down his chopsticks and noodles on the nightstand. “Don’t worry, I didn’t lay a finger on her...mm, well, no, that’s not true. I punched her in the face and split her lip open.”

Keith surges upwards, teeth bared and eyes flashing gold and violet, and Shiro expected it but Keith is _strong,_ and even with his hands bound he manages to knock Shiro flat on his back on the bed, pressing his chest into Shiro’s to keep him down, clambering over him and struggling to land some kind of hit. Shiro lets it happen, brows raised and breath admittedly shallow.

Eventually, Shiro snaps his fingers, and Keith jolts as the handcuffs electrocute him into stillness. Not enough voltage to damage anything; just enough to shock him. Keith hisses in a pained breath and shudders, eyes gold and slitted, and they both realize at about the same moment that Keith’s thighs are bracketing Shiro’s hips and they are very, very close. Neither moves.

“Hello, there,” Shiro says. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Keith whispers. “If you hurt her…” His voice breaks.

Shiro’s heart does something funny. He ignores it. “Actually, I didn’t stand a chance,” he says. “We were sparring. She knocked me flat and bled on my suit. I think she had a good time.”

Keith’s shoulders slump in relief, and he sort of squirms off of Shiro, flopping without grace onto the pillows and banging his head on the headboard. He grunts and curls into himself, glowering through his messy hair. “Then maybe she’ll kill you. That’d be nice.”

“Do you really think so?” Shiro chuckles and sits up. “Because, the way your friends talk, you’re some kind of perfect pacifist. Allura was thoroughly shocked – I’m impressed you and Acxa managed to fool her.”

Keith’s angry expression twists into horrified. _“No,”_ he breathes, “you didn’t – you _told_ her? About us both? I – _why_ would you…”

“Honesty is always the best policy,” Shiro drawls. “Princess Allura gave me a private interview with your Acxa, too. Charming. You do have a type, don’t you? Sharp. Clever. Criminal.”

Keith frowns. “Acxa isn’t –”

Shiro snorts. “Oh, yes she is. She’s a Warlord, Keith. Don’t tell me you didn’t know?” Keith inhales sharply. “You didn’t! Well, don’t take it personally. I know you didn’t tell her about your gang, either. Smart of you both.”

“I don’t _have_ a gang,” Keith grits out. “I hope my mother and Acxa gut you alive, you asshole.”

“No more scotch for you,” Shiro says, standing up and shaking his head. “Not with that mouth.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” Keith says, almost pleading.

“It’s a long story,” Shiro sighs. “One that would require more than one bottle of scotch, I’m afraid.”

“You told Allura,” Keith whispers, and leans his head against his bent knee. “And the others…?”

“I suspect they all know by now,” Shiro says. “Considering how close the princess and that lying waiter are. Imagine the scandal if _that_ got out.”

Keith lifts his head, jaw set. “They aren’t. Close.”

“At least he was a good liar. You’re not.” Shiro nods to the pad thai and chopsticks as he heads to the door. “Enjoy. I’m making crepes for breakfast. Preference in toppings?

Keith says nothing but holds his gaze, hot and harsh, and Shiro is the first to look away. It’s only when he turns the doorknob that Keith mutters, “Cherries. But not the fake shit.”

Shiro glances over his shoulder, lips quirked. “Very well, Your Highness,” he says, and leaves the room.

*

The next morning, Keith awakes to a plate of cold crepes heaped with cream and, impossibly, real cherries, sliced and pitted, staining the white cream red.

He eats them carefully, and wonders how many real cherries his bounty could buy.


	4. Chapter 4

Hunk always thought the end of the world would be different. 

Bigger, maybe. Out with a bang, and all that, in a blaze of guns and glory. But it wasn’t like that, not really. After the guns, there was no glory, only crowded public clinics full of radiation sickness victims and smoldering husks of city blocks streaked with the ashen shadows of those who hadn’t escaped.

Hunk thinks a lot about coincidences, and about how things could have been different if he could go back in time. If his family had decided to move away from the island together, rather than sending Hunk, his cousin Teuila, and his niece and nephew to the States alone, would they still be alive? Or were they doomed from the start?

Maybe it’s because he’s played one two many Fallout games, but he also expected more radioactive mutants. So far, he hasn’t seen any. He still keeps his eyes peeled.

Right now, though, the only thing he’s got eyes for is Shay.

She’s saying something, probably something smart or sweet or both, but Hunk is lost in a reverie somewhere between the glossy, full curve of her dark lips and the warm glow of her golden cyberware eyes. Shay lost most of her vision in the War when her research facility had been flooded with mustard gas and she’d stayed inside too long trying to recover data. So, naturally, she had to get mustard yellow irises to replace the old ones. Shay’s sense of humor is truly undying.

She nudges his foot under the table. “Hello, Earth to Hunk?” She’s smiling with fond exasperation.

Hunk leans forward on his elbow, chuckling. “Hmm? Did I miss something?”

“I  _ was _ telling you about the new spinner model they’re releasing next month, but I can see your head is way into the clouds. Care to share?” 

Hunk flushes. “You’re really pretty,” he says. 

Her face splits into a delighted grin. “You had  _ one  _ beer, Hunk,” she giggles. _ “One beer.” _

“I don’t need to be drunk to see how beautiful you are,” Hunk argues, tucking a strand of thick brown hair behind her pierced ear. “Wait, that came out wrong.”

“You are a  _ dork,” _ Shay informs him, scrunching up her nose and ducking forward to peck him on the cheek. “But a pretty one.”

“Uh-huh,” Hunk says, staring past her. In the dark crowd of Penumbra, it’s easy to pick out the silver shine of the Garrison man’s hair. 

Shay catches his gaze, and turns slowly, her eyes darkening to a dull orange. “Friend of yours?”

“That’s him,” Hunk mutters. “That’s the guy who Lance thinks took Keith.”

Shay draws in a sharp breath. “Oh,” she says. His right arm comes into view and she says,  _ “oh,” _ again, this time a little harsher. “I see what you meant about a weaponized prosthetic. I’d bet good money that thing packs a punch.”

Hunk doesn’t want to think about that. “Who’s he with?” The man, Shiro, is approaching a corner booth where two figures sit, both Galra. At least, Hunk assumes they’re Galra; they wear black bodysuits accented with subtly glowing violet, and their heads are hooded. They’re too big to be human or Altean. 

Shay frowns, resting her chin in her hand. “They sure don’t look like Empire or Warlord ops. A smaller gang, maybe?”

“Why is it that they always gotta be in a gang?” Hunk mumbles around Shay’s straw as he steals a sip of her mojito. She swats at his thigh, then kisses him, mint blooming sharp and fresh between them. 

Her eyes are darker when she pulls away. “Those two are hiding,” Shay murmurs. “Nobody hides in Penumbra. It’s neutral ground.”

Hunk raises an eyebrow. “So why are they hiding?”

She leans back, shaking her head. “If they’re hiding here, then they don’t show their faces anywhere. That’s a uniform, not a disguise.”

Hunk watches the table. The smaller of the two Galra shifts closer to Shiro, sliding something across the table to him. Shiro picks it up, only for the Galra to snatch it out of his hand. Shiro frowns, says something, and stands. “Small gangs don’t have uniforms like those,” he says.

“No,” Shay murmurs, “they do not.” She finishes her mojito with a swirl of the straw, eyes still fixed on the clandestine meeting across the room. 

“Want another drink, babe?” Hunk asks, scooping up the empty glass and bottle. 

“Just a Coke,” Shay says, glancing at him with a knowing look. “Be careful, puppy.”

He squeezes her shoulder. “Careful’s my middle name.”

But the truth is, he timed it so that he arrives at the bar just before Shiro does. There are perks to being friends with the bartender, but Hunk’s never used them like this.

“Hey, hot stuff,” Nyma says, pale dreadlocks painted pink and purple by the neon sign behind her, which matches her modded eyes. As usual, she’s wearing more fishnets than Hunk thought was possible for any one human body. 

“Hi,” Hunk says, leaning on the bar until their faces are inches apart. Unlike Shay, Nyma’s scleras are only a shade darker than her lilac irises. Shay’s scleras are almost as dark as her skin. “Thoughts on the old man with a big arm waiting at the bar?”

Nyma shoots a quick glance, pink mouth curling. “Not that old,” she says. “Why, who is he?”

“Was hoping you could tell me that,” Hunk says, widening his eyes pleadingly. 

Nyma huffs. “Sweetheart, I need a  _ reason _ to ID people. Unless you wanna start a bar fight…”

“My job is to break up bar fights, not start them,” Hunk mutters. 

“Well,” Nyma drawls, “then maybe we can make a deal. Is Lance free Saturday?”

Hunk rolls his eyes. “You  _ know _ he’s not on the market, Nym.”

She pouts. “I still don’t believe this mystery lady exists. Is  _ she _ free Saturday?”

Hunk groans. 

“Hey,” Shiro calls, waving with his left hand, “can I get a Jameson over here?”

_ “Can I get a Jameson,” _ Nyma mouths, mocking, and turns back with a quick, “one second, sir!” before glaring back at Hunk. “You owe me for this, mister,” she says.

“Thanks,” Hunk says. “Name and address, please. Oh, and can I get another beer?”

She flicks her dreads into his face and saunters over to Shiro. Hunk waits, sweating from more than the warmth of the club. He doesn’t like danger. As a bouncer by night and a chef by day, he is, as Shay puts it, a good example of the duality of man. But in either job, Hunk does his best to dispel conflict. Everything's better when everyone gets along. 

In the Grid, unfortunately, conflict is everywhere.

“Just the Jameson?” Nyma asks, batting her eyelashes at Shiro. Brave woman. Then again, Hunk’s not surprised; she’s a brown belt in jiu-jitsu and her partner in crime, Rolo, is the best cyberware ripper in the Grid. Those pretty eyes aren’t just for show.

Shiro glances back at the table where the Galra are waiting. “And a shot of tequila,” he says. 

Nyma drags her gaze up and down his body. “I’m gonna need to see some ID, sweetheart.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “Wow. Really?”

“Mhm,” Nyma croons. “Can never be too careful, right?”

Shiro folds his arms and Hunk’s heart pounds. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he says. 

“As the one serving you drinks, I think it is,” Nyma retorts. 

Shiro stares at her for a few more agonizing seconds, and then reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a black leather wallet. Hunk lets out a huge sigh of relief, muffled in his palm, and focuses very hard on not looking at Shiro while Nyma looks his ID over.

“Alright, everything seems to be in order,” she says, tossing the wallet back to him with a grin. “That’ll be twenty credits.”

Shiro hands over the creds, and as he does, he glances up, meeting Hunk’s eye for a brief and terrifying moment. His brow creases, and Hunk prays he was ogling Keith for too long to notice Hunk during his bouncer shifts at the Pink Lion. Thankfully, Nyma saves him, handing Shiro his Jameson and tequila and sending him on his way. She heads back over to Hunk, slamming down his beer and Coke, and leans in close.

“Takashi Shirogane,” she mutters. “Floor 117, Suite 9875, Equinox Apartments, Sector 2. You gonna tell me why I had to ID a thirty-two year old?”

“Nope,” Hunk says. “Sorry, Nym.”

She narrows her eyes. “Fine, I'm desperate. Is  _ Keith _ free Saturday?”

Hunk’s gut twists. “Nah,” he sighs. “And before you ask, neither is Acxa.”

Shay’s waiting for him when he returns with the drinks, his hands trembling. Shay notices. “What happened? Did Nyma pull through?”

Hunk nods, checking to make sure Shiro is back at his table. He is. The tequila shot sits in front of the smaller Galra, untouched. “I got a name and address,” he says. “Equinox Apartments ring any bells?”

Shay blanches. “Those are some of the most expensive apartments in the city!” she exclaims. “Not to mention, security out the ears...the whole building is supposed to be outfitted with the newest version of Eva.”

“I bet Pidge could hack that,” Hunk says slowly.

Her eyes widen. “Hunk, no,” she whispers, “you know that’s too dangerous. There are high profile people in that complex, and if the Garrison catches wind of it…”

“I can make sure they don’t,” Hunk says. “Pidge isn’t the only one who can code.”

“The Garrison’s people can code  _ better,” _ Shay hisses.

“We’ll see,” Hunk says.

Shay looks at him, and bites her lip. “You really think he has Keith in there,” she says. Hunk nods, and her face crumples. “And the chances he’s still alive…?”

“I don’t want to assume anything until we know for sure,” Hunk says firmly. In truth, he can’t bear to think of what Shay is suggesting – of Keith, dying alone and terrified at the hands of a stranger who betrayed his trust. “The Pink Lion has tough bartenders, Shay. I’m holding out at least a little hope.”

“Excuse me?”

Hunk and Shay blink at the young Altean, her blonde hair pulled back in the same two long braids Hunk remembers. She eyes them nervously, and Hunk notes that her blue eyes are hidden by bright lilac contacts, matching her lipstick and ruffled skirt. More interestingly, there are pale blue sickles on her cheekbones, and her ears are subtly pointed. That’s new.

“I remember you,” Hunk says. “You didn’t look like an Altean last time we met, though. And something tells me you’re still too young for this club by Altean standards.”

She folds her arms. “Don’t tell, please? And it would’ve complicated things if Miss Allura saw me in her club. I’m with the Hira Syndicate, not Alfor’s…”

Shay frowns. “Hira is recruiting children, now?”

“The Arus Institute adopted my brother and I when we were babies, as they’ve done for many other Alteans orphaned by the War,” she says. “I know what outsiders say, but Hira’s people aren’t so bad.”

“Mind control is bad,” Hunk says politely, and takes a long sip of his beer. No matter how many arguments he hears in favor of the hoktril, the device horrifies him. Anything that takes away a person’s free will is wrong, especially if it reduces the person to something less than human, a non-cog.  _ Non-cog _ is a euphemism for  _ slave,  _ as far as he’s concerned. 

Her face scrunches up. “This isn’t what I came over here to talk about! I heard you talking about the Pink Lion bartender. The one who saved my life, with the pretty eyes –”

Hunk holds up a hand. “Stop. Listen, kid. I got your butt out of trouble once already and I’m gonna do it again – this doesn’t concern you, so walk away.”

Unfortunately, this seems to spur her on even more. “No!” she exclaims. “If he’s in trouble, I want to help! I have resources –”

“Honey,” Shay says, “it’s good you’re so eager to help. You must feel like you owe Keith a lot. But you don’t. This isn’t your fight. He was involved in some bad stuff, okay? And...well, it might be too late to get him out, anyway.”

Her lower lip trembles. “You mean...he’s dead?”

“We don’t know,” Hunk sighs. “I hope not, kid.”

She exhales, hand on her hip and brow furrowed. “Fine,” she says. “You don’t want my help, don’t take it. But I want to help.” She presses a slim card into Hunk’s hand. “Go to the Institute and show them this, and they’ll take you to me. Goodnight.” She spins on her heel and marches off, braids swinging behind her.

Shay peers over his shoulder at the card. “Romelle? Hm.”

“She’s only sixteen,” Hunk sighs, pocketing the card with no intention of looking at it again. “Too young for this mess.”

“We were all too young during the War,” Shay murmurs. “Better to be young now, I think.”

“Is it?” Hunk sighs, leaning his head back to look at the ceiling, speckled with lights imitating stars. It’s another cruel reminder of how inaccessible the real stars are. They’re all trapped here, on this slowly degrading sphere of shrinking oceans and polluted atmosphere. “At least we remember when the grass was green and the sky was blue.”

Shay leans her head against his shoulder and turns her face into his shirt. “And the sun. Remember the sun?”

The sun is red now, through the dust and ash and chemical film. It reminds Hunk of a great beast’s eye, watching over them with relentless, heated fury. “Beaches,” Hunk says. “White sand beaches with the clearest water you’ve ever imagined.”

“We’ll see beaches like that again,” Shay says, lifting her head. “Someday.”

Hunk wishes he had her faith. One day, he’d like to live again. But for now, all they can do is survive. 

*

_ Hello, Guest Keith. _

Keith cracks an eye open from the freshly-made bed. “I didn’t activate you,” he mumbles.

_ Hello, Guest Keith – Hello, Mr. Shirogane – he...llo – deactivating – authentication secured –  _ The voice crackles into static. 

Keith sits up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “What the…”

_ User BIRDN3RD requesting voice access. _ Keith’s eyes widen and he leaps out of bed. There is a long pause.  _ Access granted.  _

“Pidge?” Keith says, turning a slow circle and staring at the ceiling in disbelief. “Is that you?”

_ KEITH?! Oh my god, it’s him!  _

_ Thank god, we thought you were dead!  _

_ I told you he wasn’t dead! _

A chatter of excited and frantic voices spills over the intercom and Keith can only stare, mouth agape, and stammer out, “I’m – yes it’s me, Keith, I’m here, a Garrison bounty hunter named Takashi Shirogane kidnapped me, he’s keeping me in a guest bedroom, where are you –”

_ Holy fuck, okay,  _ Pidge gasps,  _ I’m on it. I can’t believe this is working. Alright, Keith, listen to me. We’re gonna get you out, yeah? _

“Yeah,” Keith whispers, grabbing the bed to stop his hands from shaking. “I’m listening, pigeon.”

_ Okay,  _ Pidge says,  _ I’m going to unlock all the doors, but I don’t know how long it’ll take before the system recognizes the security breach and tries to fix it. So you gotta hurry. _

“Believe me,” Keith hisses, “It's been almost a damn week; I’m ready to get the hell out of here.”

_ Good,  _ Pidge says.  _ Tell me when you’re in the elevator. Get to Floor 10, there’s a fire exit I can access and open for you there. Got it? _

“Yes,” Keith gasps, “yes, please –”

_ Lock access requested. Requires Level 3 Security Clearance...Level 3 Security Clearance accepted. Locks disabled.  _

The door clicks open. Keith sprints for it, and for the first time no handcuffs click onto his wrists. Freedom is dizzying, and as he stumbles out into the hallway, he falters, initially certain that what he’s seeing is a hallucination.

It’s a  _ cat. _ A real cat, with short black fur and three legs. It’s staring at him from the nearby living room, head tilted and yellow eyes wide. “Mrrrow?” the cat says.

Keith shakes his head and runs to the exit. He could cry in relief when the handle gives and the door wrenches open, and then he’s standing in the quiet floor hall, and he can see the elevator, and he doesn’t break stride for a second until the doors slide open and the hologram welcomes him in. 

“Pidge?” he says. “Pidge, I’m in, I’m in the elevator –”

_ Shit,  _ Pidge says,  _ Keith, give me a second, here – _

Eva extends an expectant hand to Keith. He doesn’t move.  _ Please verify User ID, _ Eva says. 

Keith clears his throat. “Uh, Pidge?”

_ User ID not recognized. Please try again. _

The elevator doors shut. Keith backs away from the advancing hologram. “Pidge!” No answer.

_ User ID not recognized – _

“Takashi Shirogane,” Keith snaps. 

Eva pauses.  _ Voice does not match. Please verify ID with fingerprint scan. _

Keith says nothing, digging his nails into his own palms. 

Then Eva falters mid-step, straightens up, and smiles blankly.  _ User ID accepted, _ she says.  _ Floor? _

Keith slumps in relief and whispers, “Floor 10, please.”

The  _ 10 _ button lights up blue and Keith exhales, squeezing his eyes shut and steadying himself. It moves too slowly for Keith’s liking, and he looks out the glass plated wall at the Grid by day, marveling at the ugliness of the brown smog and skyscrapers like broken teeth rising up out of it. 

Beyond it, he can see the gritty smear of the Wastelands, and his heart pangs with unexpected longing. He’s never really missed the Wastelands before, but he does now. He misses the freedom of the open desert, of hoverbikes racing over burning sand and sunsets like wildfires...anything but white walls and white sheets and a man with white hair.

They’re on Floor 12 when the elevator stops. “Wait,” Keith gasps, “don’t open the doors –”

_ User ID Takashi Shirogane authenticated.  _

Of all the fucking people in this building…

Keith could scream. But he doesn’t. He takes a single moment to revel in the open mouthed surprise on Shiro’s face as the doors open before smashing the  _ Close Doors _ button.

“Eva, open doors,” Shiro snaps, jamming his right hand in between the metal sections. He’s just come back from the gym, judging by his sweat-soaked clothes and the towel draped over his shoulders. The color high in his cheeks is equal parts exertion and anger, Keith guesses.

_ Opening doors – _

“Close doors!” Keith yells. As if confused, the doors slide slowly shut, unable to close around Shiro’s hand. “Pidge! Close the fucking elevator door, sever the cable, I don’t care, just –  _ fuck!” _

Shiro’s hand fires six inches from Keith’s head, blasting a hole straight through the bulletproof glass and singing the tips of his hair. “Eva, go into Lockdown Mode,” Shiro says in a flat, cold voice that sends Keith into fight or flight mode, “dispatch a building-wide intruder alert and lock my suite until I get there.”

The lights in the elevator shift from a cool blue to a furious red. Air rushes in through the hole in the glass. Keith sees the hairline fractures around it, and with no other thought but escape in mind, drives his entire body weight against the outer edge of the circle as hard as he can.

Shiro’s eyes flash as the glass creaks and splinters when Keith throws himself against it again.

“We’re on the twelfth floor,” Shiro grits out as he forces the doors open. “You’ll fall to your death.”

“Better than the alternative,” Keith snarls, and ducks under Shiro’s arm as he lunges forward, stumbling out into the hall. Shiro swears behind him and heat sears past Keith’s shoulder as the prosthetic fires again, vicious violet beam slicing through the carpet and leaving it black. Keith runs, lungs burning and energy flagging, and he shifts without thinking; his Galra form is stronger. He should have grabbed a weapon from Shiro’s apartment. He should have run faster. 

He hits a dead end.  _ No.  _ There has to be another way. Desperate, Keith bangs on the nearest door, Shiro advancing on him steadily, unhurried. Except for the arm, he has no weapons, either, Keith realizes. Too bad the damn arm is practically a rocket launcher. 

“Help!” Keith screams, driving his fist into the metal door until his knuckles bruise and split. “Open the door, help me! Pidge!”

“Nobody can hear you,” Shiro says. “Most of these apartments are empty, anyway. As for your friend, I’m impressed they managed to break into Eva’s mainframe, but it’s secured now. I’m afraid it’s just you and me, Keith.”

Keith bares his teeth, sucks in a breath harshly through his nose, and tries to make a run for it past Shiro. 

Shiro is ready for him, and catches Keith with his right arm, trapping him against his chest. He smells like sweat and cologne and it shouldn’t be as hot as it is. Keith drives his knee up between Shiro’s legs. Shiro grunts, sagging into him, but doesn’t release him. Keith knees him again and Shiro’s hand burns against his back while his left hand catches Keith’s upper thigh. “That’s impolite,” Shiro murmurs. 

Keith stares at him, eyes wild, and kisses him, pressing his knee into the bulge in Shiro’s sweatpants as hard as he can with Shiro holding him. If you asked him, Keith couldn’t say why he did it. But he does, biting Shiro’s lower lip and circling his arms around Shiro’s neck, clawed hands digging into rippling muscle and slicing through.

And Shiro, for whatever reason, kisses back.

Shiro knocks him to the ground, coming down hard and heavy on top of him. Keith rakes his claws down Shiro’s back, fighting against him even as he opens his mouth to Shiro’s tongue. Shiro accidentally finds a fang and startles away, his pupils blown and mouth pink. 

“You just love to ruin my clothes, don’t you,” he murmurs, and moves lightning-quick, forcing Keith’s wrists away from his back and pinning them to the carpet on either side of Keith’s head. Shiro’s blood covers Keith’s fingers and palms, and a slow trickle runs down Shiro’s collarbones. Shiro doesn’t seem to mind.

Keith spits in his face. “I’ll kill you,” he snarls, “I’ll fucking kill you –”

Shiro snorts. “Yeah? With your dick? I don’t think so.”

Seething, Keith goes limp under him, catching his breath, and the pressure on his wrists eases. Keith then lets himself shift as fully as possible and wrenches free of Shiro’s grasp in a burst of strength that takes the human by surprise. Keith turns on his heel and runs, adrenaline and arousal turning everything too hot and sharp. He can see the elevator. He’s  _ so close – _

A metal hand closes around his ankle, yanking it out from under him, and Keith shouts as he falls on his face. A shadow falls over him, and Keith crawls, desperate, bloodied claws shredding the carpet. The metal hand heats up, and Keith stills, for fear that the damn thing might actually cauterize his foot off. 

“Oh, Keith,” Shiro sighs, stopping behind him, “what _ am _ I going to do with you?”

Keith twists around to lash out at him, but a warning burst of heat from the hand stops him. “I could’ve done it,” he hisses. “I could’ve gotten out. I could do it again.”

“Yes, you could, couldn’t you,” Shiro muses, and clicks his tongue. “We can’t have that. I would be in  _ so _ much trouble if my fifty million credits up and ran away, you have _ no _ idea.” He pauses. “I took the liberty of tracking down the IP address of the hacker; they tried to hide, but I have safeguards in place, and so does the Garrison. I think I’ll pay your little hacker friend a visit. Somehow I doubt they’re as good at taking punches as your mother.”

Cauterized leg be damned, Keith leaps to his feet as best he can, slamming against Shiro’s front with a howl of rage. Shiro’s hand moves to Keith’s neck, flesh fingers closing in tight. Shiro eyes him impassively.  _ “You heartless son of a bitch,” _ Keith chokes out, hands held behind his back by Shiro’s unyielding right hand.    
  
“Technically, yes,” Shiro sighs, dragging him towards the elevator. “It’s synthetic. Just like too many other parts of this body.”

Keith falters. Wait.  _ What? _

But the fingers on his neck are tightening, cutting off his air, and his vision is darkening at the edges, and he has no time to contemplate why the fuck Shiro’s insides are synthetic before he loses consciousness.

*

“This was from today?” Allura asks, looking at the recording, then at Chuchule, in horror. 

Her mouse nods. It’s not a real mouse, of course, but rather a synthetic android shaped like a rodent, one capable of climbing straight up walls, hovering, listening, and recording what it sees for her. It’s one of her tiniest, and best, spies. The other mice gather around the monitor, squeaking quietly. It displays a disturbing scene, captured through the window of Suite 9875’s guest bedroom. 

The Garrison bounty hunter is dragging Keith into the room, both of them bloodied and bruised, though Keith is worse off considering he appears to be unconscious. He also appears to have shifted to his more Galran form, purple splotching his skin here and there, ears elongated and pointed, nails turned to claws, teeth sharper than any human’s. When Allura hits play again, the bounty hunter tosses Keith onto the ground, panting, and takes a moment to stare down at him. 

He kneels, and, to Allura’s utter bewilderment, carefully brushes Keith’s messy hair out of his face, touch lingering.

Then Takashi Shirogane turns, exposing the clawed and bloodied mess of his back, and leaves the room.

Allura slumps back in her chair. “Oh, dear,” she whispers. _ “Keith…”  _ The mice look at her expectantly and she puts her head in her hands. “I _ know _ ...I must do something. I never should have let that man walk through this door, but…” She exhales. “I did. And now Keith is in terrible danger.”

The mice stare at her and squeak, awaiting further instruction. They’re excellent spies, but make for poor companions, and since the Pink Lion is closed tonight and Lance cancelled their date, they’re the only ones she’s got. 

_ Oh, Lance. _ Allura can’t blame him. He and Keith were friends, albeit somewhat combative ones. Then again, she was supposed to be Keith’s friend, too. She really had made a mess of things. The image of Keith’s clawed hands and violet skin would not leave her mind for awhile, but...even if Keith had committed the crimes Shirogane had accused him of, he’s nothing like the monsters who had killed her mother. He at least deserves a fair trial, which he won’t get locked in Shirogane’s guest bedroom.

Her father would let the law run its course. Alfor’s Syndicate works closely with the Garrison, after all. But Allura’s subsyndicate often toes the line of legality. This, however, would be the first time she’s acting outside of her father’s orders.

A hollow thud echoes through the silent club, and Allura is on her feet in a second, hand on the taser strapped to her belt at all times. “Go,” she hisses to the mice. “I’m not expecting anyone at this hour.”

The thud comes again, and Allura realizes it’s a knock. Eyes narrowing, seeing easily in the gloom, she makes her way to the back door. The mice follow, though they wouldn’t be much good in a fight. She was foolish to stay here by herself. 

Heart in her throat, Allura cracks the back door open.

There’s no one there. Just the empty alley, and a single ragged plastic bag drifting through the dusty wind. Frowning and still on edge, she steps out into the alley...and freezes.

A Galra steps out from the shadows in her peripherals, a female with violet irises in yellow scleras and a dark stripe on each side of her impossibly familiar face. She’s wearing a jacket Allura’s recognizes – one of Keith’s, dark red with a white collar.

“Princess,” the Galra murmurs, inclining her head. “I apologize for the secrecy, but I have no intention of harming you. I only wish to speak.”

Allura stands stiffly, not wanting to leave the doorway. “You’re related to Keith, aren’t you?” she whispers, words coming out shakier than she meant.

“Yes,” the Galra says. “I am Keith’s mother, Krolia. He has told me much about you. I only wish we could have met under...better circumstances.”

Her lips part.  _ His mothe _ r...she eases slightly, letting her hand fall away from the taser. “Hello, Krolia,” Allura says. “Then...you’ve heard Keith is missing.”

“Missing,” Krolia repeats. “Mm. That may not be the correct term.”

“I know the Garrison is after him,” Allura offers. “I know he has committed crimes...or at least, they claim he has.”

“Do you believe them?” Krolia asks.

Allura inhales. “I believe Keith is a good man from what I know of him. But what I know of him seems to be less and less, lately.”

Krolia makes a quiet, sympathetic sound. “We all have our secrets, Princess Allura. Keith’s were kept for his own protection.”

“So is it true?” Allura bites her lip. “Is he truly responsible for multiple homicides?”

“The homicides aren’t what the Garrison cares about,” Krolia says dismissively. “They care about the first count. The theft.”

Allura’s brow furrows. “What did he steal that could be more important than lives?”

Krolia takes a step closer. It’s raining, a dull drizzle, and raindrops cling to her violet hair and dark eyelashes. “Something that could save the world,” Krolia says. “It’s called Project VOLTRON. Do not repeat this name to anyone — the Garrison has eyes and ears everywhere, and your position in Alfor’s Syndicate will not stop them from silencing you.”

Allura swallows. “Is that a threat?”

Krolia shakes her head. “This is what Keith stole, Princess. The Garrison wants this intel, badly. And we have reason to believe that, in their hands, it will be misused.”

“You said this intel could save the world,” Allura whispers. “Who better to have it than the Garrison? They created the Grids.”

“Does the world feel saved to you, Princess?” Krolia retorts, and, well, that is an awfully good point.

“Who is  _ we?” _ Allura asks.

“Pardon?”

“You said  _ we _ have reason to believe they will misuse the intel. Who do you work for?” Allura demands.

Krolia tilts her head. “No one you know,” she says. “Anyway,  _ we _ have reason to believe this Project VOLTRON has something to do with Altean technology. It would be a highly confidential project, and could even be ethically unsound. It may have something to do with quintessence research and alternate fuel engineering. That is all I can tell you.”

“The Arus Institute,” Allura says at once. “It would be there, if such a project existed. Besides, I know of nothing like what you describe at AlteaTech.”

“Very well,” Krolia says. “Do what you will with what I have told you, as long as you keep quiet about it. You are a good woman, Princess, and I have just put you in danger with this information.”

“Keith is already in danger,” Allura whispers. The image on the monitor flickers through her head. “Listen...I don’t know what your angle is, but you have given me information, so please allow me to return the favor. There is a Garrison man named Takashi Shirogane. Do not trust him.”

“Shirogane?” Krolia repeats, and frowns. “Silver hair, big arm, attitude?”

“You’re acquainted,” Allura says with surprise. Krolia nods. Allura exhales. “So you know he’s the bounty hunter who captured Keith,” she says.

Krolia freezes. Her eyes are cold gold. 

“Oh,” Allura squeaks, “you didn’t know...I…”

“This  _ man,” _ Krolia growls, brow lowering, “where is he keeping Keith?”

“In his apartment,” Allura says, hesitant. “The Equinox complex.”

Krolia swears. “That’s heavily guarded. It may as well be a supermax.”

Allura nods. “I believe Keith attempted escape today, but was apprehended by Shirogane. Security will likely be increased.”

Krolia’s hands curl into fists. “You have eyes on him?! Is he hurt?”

Allura flinches back at the Galra’s obvious rage, clutching the door frame with pale knuckles. “Yes, I’ve been trying since he went missing; today was the first day I got a visual,” she whispers. “He was unconscious, but...he injured Shirogane as well. And, um…”

“Yes?” Krolia snaps, impatient and...afraid. Fear is bright in her yellow eyes and etched into the lines of her face. 

Allura hesitates. “If I’m not mistaken, Shirogane harbors some fondness for Keith.”

_ “Fondness,”  _ Krolia spits.

“Yes.” Allura looks down and blushes. “On the night Keith went missing, Monday, I believe he went home with Shirogane. Willingly, that is.”

Krolia’s snarl settles into a deep frown. “Ah,” she says. “I see. And Shirogane has not yet turned Keith over to the Garrison?”

“Not yet,” Allura says. “He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.”

Krolia folds her arms. “You will alert me if Shirogane moves him. Here.” She reaches into Keith’s jacket pocket and withdraws a small neural chip. “Insert this into your neural socket or another appropriate port and it will open a direct line of communication with me.” Allura takes the chip, and Krolia adds, “Do not try to lure me into a trap. It will end badly.”

Allura nods. She has no doubt Krolia would make her very sorry indeed. “I won’t,” she says. “So...you’re not going to act against Shirogane?”

“I have no choice but to wait,” Krolia grits out, looking away. “Even if we are able to extract him, it will take a great deal of planning. In the meantime, I will expect your updates regarding my son’s wellbeing.”

“Very well,” Allura says. “I can promise no other involvement in this –”

“Princess,” Krolia interrupts, “I know you prefer to act according to the law. But when the law is wrong, we must make our own way.”

Allura stares at her. “I will go to the Arus Institute,” she says. “Beyond that…”

“I understand,” Krolia says. She pauses, and her harsh gaze softens. “I know Empire has caused you pain,” she murmurs. “But we have both lost loved ones to them, Princess. You lost your mother. Keith lost his father. I lost the love of my life.”

Standing before her in the rain, Krolia bows her head, and exhales softly. “I’m sorry,” Allura whispers.

“Do not be sorry,” Krolia says. “Do something.” And she walks down the alley, Keith’s jacket pulled tight around her, off into the night.

*

The Arus Institute is cold and white and awful. As usual.

Allura lifts her head high as she strides through the sliding glass doors, the security droids flanking the entry remaining still and inactive. While it is certainly unusual for Alfor’s people to traipse into the heart of Hira’s territory, it is not expressly forbidden. Besides, Allura has a reputation. It’s unlikely even Commander Hira herself would try to stop her.

She approaches one of the secretaries in the sparkling clean, circular lobby, and the Altean looks up from her tablet with owlish orange eyes. “Hello, may I help you?” she asks, taking in Allura’s expensive leather skirt and black satin top with an admittedly plunging neckline. 

“You may,” Allura says, flashing her ID card. “Allura Knight, AlteaTech. I was hoping to learn about the Institute’s latest research projects.”

The secretary’s wide eyes grow wider. “Miss Knight! Princess, that is – oh, my. Er. It’s an honor. I, um, please, one moment…” She fumbles with her communicator, lifting it to her ear and saying in a mildly amusing stage whisper, “Princess Allura is here! She wants to know about research projects...yes, she’s alone...no, I...alright, of course, yes, I will.”

Allura waits, eyebrows raised. The other secretaries are peeking over their desks at her, and some of the passing scientists’ gazes linger.

“Please, go right through those doors, ma’am,” the secretary says with a vague, panicky gesture. “Commander Hira is honored to have you here, and will send someone down for you right away.”

“Thank you, Miss Sinna,” Allura says graciously, and goes through the indicated doors while the secretary blushes furiously.

Sure enough, there is a scientist waiting for her, a middle-aged Altean man with pale green markings, close-cropped gray hair, and oval spectacles. He bows as she approaches. “Princess Allura, what a pleasure. My name is Dr. Canlam, and I would be happy to show you around our facilities today. Secretary Sinna mentioned you had an interest in learning more about our research projects here?”

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Canlam,” Allura murmurs, tilting her head up to admire the vaulted ceiling and dozens of floors, each one bustling with activity. “I swear the Institute gets larger and more impressive every year. You certainly keep yourselves busy.”

“That we do!” he chuckles. “As it is, we have hundreds of research projects...and as much as I’d love to, I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly show you every one of them. Are there any in particular you were interested in?”

Allura smiles. “I do have an interest in quintessence research, as well as in fuel development. Do you have any projects involving either of those?”

Dr. Canlam smiles back, slightly forced. “We do indeed, Princess. However...I must warn you some of those projects are...a bit unorthodox.”

Allura’s stomach turns. “Miss Knight is fine, doctor. And please, don’t worry about that. I know the pursuit of scientific knowledge can sometimes be, ah, difficult.” She lowers her voice. “And...just between you and I, doctor, I am not here for my father. This is a rather more personal visit.”

He nods, eyes glinting. “My apologies, Miss Knight. There have always been disagreements between our Institute and AlteaTech, but I’m glad to hear you see why we do what we must, here. Right this way...I believe you may be interested in one of our older, ongoing projects, affectionately dubbed Goldilocks.”

“What a charming name,” Allura says, following him to the elevator. “And what is the goal of Goldilocks?”

“Well,” Dr. Canlam says, tapping the button for the twelfth floor, “as you know, since our arrival here on Earth we have been searching for a way to distill the pure quintessence needed to sufficiently power ships. Goldilocks may be on its way to finding a solution to that.” She dislikes his avoidance.

“How, Dr. Canlam?”

The elevator begins to move and he clears his throat. “Here at the Arus Institute, we strive not only to create the best future possible, but to better the present. In the War, many Altean lives were lost, as you know. This left many Altean children orphaned, with no real agency to take them in. So, we intervened.”

“Yes, doctor, I am aware of the Institute’s ward program,” Allura says, wary. “But what do these children have to do with Goldilocks?”

“Miss Knight, you likely know there are many different kinds of quintessence,” Dr. Canlam says. “Raw and refined being the main varieties. However, through Goldilocks we’ve discovered another variety, one we call concentrated quintessence. So far, it has not been successful in powering ships, but it has other uses, specifically regenerative uses. It could be revolutionary in the world of medicine.”

The elevator doors open. Allura sincerely hopes this man is not implying what she thinks he is. “I’m intrigued, doctor,” she presses, “but where does such an extraordinary strain of quintessence come from?”

“It will be easier to show you, Miss Knight,” Dr. Canlam says, and leads her out into a wide hall. Passing scientists and doctors smile and incline their heads. Everyone here is much too happy. They walk past rooms with scientists and test tubes and expensive machines, but nothing questionable...until Dr. Canlam stops before a door marked  _ TRIAL CHAMBER. _ He raps on the door. 

A young, blonde Altean woman opens the door with a bright grin. “Dr. Canlam! And I see you’ve brought a distinguished guest with you. Miss Knight.” She nods and opens the door wider. “Please, come in. We’re just about to begin Bandor’s first trial of the day.”

Allura’s skin prickles. All of this feels like a performance, manufactured for her sake. She supposes it was foolish to assume they wouldn’t try to hide company secrets from Alfor’s daughter, but...they’re letting her see this. Whatever this is.

There’s a low hospital bed in the room, and a metal examining table beside it. There’s an Altean boy sitting on the table, swinging his dangling legs. She does not stumble, but it’s a near thing. He blinks at her with large blue eyes. He can’t be older than ten.

“Bandor, say hello to Miss Knight,” the Altean woman says, ruffling his hair. There’s an IV in his arm, and several electrodes visible on his skin.

“Hi, Miss Knight!” Bandor says. “Are you here to watch my trial today?”

Allura swallows and nods. “Yes, she is, Bandor,” Dr. Canlam says. “So be on your best behavior, alright?” 

He winks and Bandor giggles. The Altean woman turns a machine on, and it displays what Allura assumes is the boy’s heartbeat. “Will I get candy if it works this time, Dr. Mazari?”

“You know you get candy every time, Bandor,” Dr. Mazari assures him.

“Please, sit down, Miss Knight,” Dr. Canlam says, guiding her to a plastic chair in the corner. “This is a standard procedure and won’t take long at all.”

She nods and sits down, tasting bile. She doesn’t want to watch this. She hopes, desperately, that she’s somehow mistaken.

But then Dr. Mazari fits a circular device with electrodes lining the inside over the boy’s head and says, “Remember Bandor, just a pinch,” before flipping several switches on the cranial device and sliding a sterile syringe into the nape of his neck. 

Allura’s nails bite into the plastic seat. Bandor’s face scrunches up, and the cranial device begins to glow, causing his body to jerk in small, intermittent pulses, as if electrocuted. Allura looks on in barely disguised horror. He’s biting his trembling lip, and Dr. Canlam holds his hand, his hand which looks so tiny in the scientist’s gloved palm…

The syringe fills with a pale blue-white, glowing liquid, and Dr. Mazari switches the cranial device off after withdrawing the full syringe. “All done, Bandor! That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“N-no,” Bandor stammers, looking down at his feet. He looks...drained. His skin, before flushed with color, is ashen. His eyes are hazy. Allura feels sick. “Can...can I have my candy, now?”

“Of course,” Dr. Canlam says, and goes to a small fridge on the countertop, withdrawing a bag of brightly colored gummies and a bottle of some kind of smoothie drink. Then he helps Bandor off the table and into the hospital bed. He goes without a fight. “These will make you feel better in no time, Bandor.” 

The boy smiles tiredly, slumping back against the thin pillow, and takes the offered snacks, drinking the smoothie in small sips in between bites of gummies. Allura attempts to school her expression and asks politely, “If I may, what is in that food you’ve given him?”

“Oh, just electrolytes, vitamins, antioxidants, the like!” Dr. Canlam replies, helping Dr. Mazari transfer the syringe solution into a series of small glass vials. “Keeps their strength up, and children love sweet things, so, it all works out.”

Bandor looks at her from the bed as the doctors work. “You’re very pretty, Miss Knight,” he says. His voice is quiet, nothing like before the trial. Her heart aches. 

“Thank you, Bandor,” she whispers. She glances at the doctors; they’re engaged in their work and chatting to each other. “Are you in pain?” she asks.

Bandor furrows his brow. “Sort of,” he mumbles, and looks ashamed for saying it. “But it doesn’t matter. My help could save so many lives, Miss Knight. It’s okay if it hurts a little, if it means the stuff in my head heals people.”

Her face crumples. “Oh, dear,” she whispers, “is that what they tell you?”

“Bandor is one of our prime candidates in Goldilocks,” Dr. Canlam announces, turning around with one of the vials in his hands. “As you can see, we harvest the concentrated quintessence from his brain stem, as it tends to collect in spinal fluid. The procedure has no lasting ill effects –”

“So far,” Allura finishes, jaw tight. 

Dr. Canlam pauses. “Excuse me, Miss Knight?”

“The procedure has no lasting ill effects  _ so far,” _ Allura says. “Yet you are willing to risk the lives of Altean children to further your research?”

The doctors exchange looks. “There are certainly risks, however the children are perfectly willing –”

“They are children and unable to consent to these invasive medical procedures,” Allura interrupts, lifting her chin. “You said this research was revolutionary. Well, show me proof. Show me the reward outweighs the risk, because so far, I am not convinced.”

Dr. Canlam frowns. “Very well…” He turns to Dr. Mazari. “Please fetch Moxilous.”

She hesitates. “Shouldn’t we test these solutions first for impurities –”

“Doctor. Now.”

She leaves in a hurry.

“Miss Knight,” Bandor whispers, “are you angry?”

“Not at you,” she says. 

“I did warn you, Miss Knight,” Dr. Canlam says. “I thought you were prepared.”

She does not dignify that with a response.

A few minutes later, Dr. Mazari returns...with a Galra. A hulking male Galra of fairly advanced age, with shockingly red hair braided down his back. His expression is blank, and he hunches over, staring straight ahead. Bandor shifts uncomfortably as Dr. Mazari leads the Galra into the room, and Allura sees it – a small metal plate affixed to the back of his skull with two short antennas sticking out of it.

A hoktril. The Galra is a non-cog. 

Allura has seen them before, but it is never any easier.

“Moxilous, as you can see, is a non-cog, one of our oldest,” Dr. Canlam declares proudly. 

_ Proud. _ How can he be proud of this horrifying creation?

“Unfortunately, over time the hoktril degrades the subject’s neural connections, often severing them completely,” Dr. Canlam continues, oblivious to Allura’s mounting fury and disgust. “In the past, we have removed hoktril from subjects who served out their sentences, only for the unfortunate subject to suffer from amnesia, emotional degradation, or worse, enter into a fully vegetative state.” 

Moxilous does not react to the doctor’s words. He does not react to anything. He might as well be a doll, motionless and empty-eyed. But he isn’t a doll. He’s a person... _ was _ a person.

“If we were to remove Moxilous’s hoktril now, he would most certainly have little to no neural connections remaining,” Dr. Canlam says. It’s like he’s talking about the weather. He doesn’t care about the person who was lost. Maybe he’s never even stopped to think about it.

“However, this concentrated quintessence, as I said, has incredible regenerative properties. Dr. Mazari, if you would do the honors?”

She goes up on her tiptoes and fiddles with a port on the hoktril, before one of the antennas comes off and she affixes the vial in its place. Moxilous jolts, and blinks slowly. Bandor peers at him from the bed like he’s a caged predator, fascinating but terrifying. 

“How are you feeling, Moxilous?” Dr. Canlam asks.

“Okay,” Moxilous says, in a gruff voice that creaks with disuse. “Feel okay.”

Allura stiffens in her chair. 

“Excellent, Moxilous,” Dr. Canlam praises. “Can you tell us how you came to us?”

“Yes,” Moxilous grates out, “eleven years ago, I was charged with crime in War...spying for enemy.”

“And there was some disagreement in your trial as to whether or not you committed this crime,” Dr. Canlam continues. “Did you commit the crime, Moxilous?”

There is a long pause. Then he says, “Yes. I was Empire spy.”

Dr. Canlam smiles at Allura. “There,” he says, “do you see what this means?”

“You made him confess,” she whispers. There is a thought forming in her head, a terrible thought.

_ Keith,  _ she thinks.

“Exactly! There will no longer be any need for courts or interrogations or...less conventional forms of persuasion.”  _ Torture. He means torture. _ “With this combination of hoktril and concentrated quintessence, the neural connections are restored, but the subject is still under our control. It’s the ultimate lie detector!”

Allura stands abruptly. “Moxilous,” she says. The non-cog turns, blinking at her. “Have they hurt you here?”

Something flickers across his expressionless face, and Allura recognizes it for what it is. Pain. “Yes,” Moxilous says. “Hurt me very much.”

“I think that’s enough,” Dr. Canlam says, eyes narrowing.

“Do they hurt the children here?” Allura demands. “The wards?”

“Ye –”

“Moxilous, silent!”

The non-cog closes his mouth.

“Dr. Mazari,” Dr. Canlam says. “Remove the vial.”

Moxilous’s eyes widen. “No,” he groans, “no, please –” His limbs twitch like he wants to move, but can’t. Dr. Mazari removes the vial, and all emotion wipes from his face at once. He goes still again, eyes hollow.

“I’ve seen enough here,” Allura says, and turns to go. 

“Princess – !”

“Don’t worry,” she snaps, “I won’t tell my father about your scientific breakthroughs.”  _ Only about your disgusting rights violations.  _

No one stops her as she leaves, fumbling with the elevator buttons, her hands shaking badly. The look in Moxilous’s and Bandor’s eyes haunts her.  _ Empty, they were both empty.  _

Allura has not cried in years, but she wants to, then. How did they let the world come to this, to stealing minds and childhoods away from those who deserve them just as much as anyone else? Moxilous may have been a spy once but he does not deserve to be erased, turned into little more than a hollow shell to do the Institute’s bidding. She thinks death would be kinder.

People avoid her as she storms through the white, gleaming halls; she hates how clean this place is, how bright and perfect it appears. But its beauty goes no further than the surface; behind every door is another secret, another scientist who forgot how to feel, another victim of experiments done in the name of the greater good. Just because they present it all on a silver platter doesn’t make them any better than the Empire’s druids. Yet, this cruelty is legal. Not just legal, but funded by government credits.

_ But when the law is wrong, we must make our own way. _

Secretary Sinna rises as Allura bursts through the doors, black heeled boots clicking too loud on the white tile. “Princess Allura, I heard there was some disturbance, is everything alright?”

Allura stops, with effort, and turns to her. Sinna stares up at her. She is young, and her eyes are innocent, and Allura thinks she may well be just another victim. 

“Everything is fine,” Allura says, eyes stinging. “That must be what you tell yourselves every day, isn’t it? I can’t blame you for that. Ignorance is easy. Blissful. But it won’t last. It can’t.”

No one stops her when she leaves. She sits astride her hoverbike, staring at the sunset through the skyscrapers, reflected in a blinding array of color on the metal. The dying light looks like blood trails, sliced open fingers raking through the damaged sky. 

Allura leans her head against the cold handlebars and it begins to rain. 

She rides through the city with only a vague destination in mind: away. She cannot go home; she cannot be in the Grid’s center, where everything is fine and shiny and perfect, where her father claims to disagree with the hoktril in practice but has lunch with Commander Hira every Sunday, where Keith is trapped in a cell one hundred and seventeen floors away from help, where everywhere Allura looks she can see willful mistakes she fears cannot, will not, be fixed. 

It’s not surprising when she finds herself in Sector 12 outside a familiar brick apartment building. The rain is pouring down, and dully she notes her hair, tied back in a neat bun, has come undone and drips down her back, plastered to her skin and soaked shirt. Her makeup runs, and she catches a glimpse of herself in a passing spinner – she is a dark, smudged girl, a watercolor portrait gone wrong. 

She types in the code Lance gave her years ago and does not bother with the elevator; she feels like she deserves the trek up seven flights of stairs. By the time she arrives at his doorstep, she is shivering and her heart is a stone in her chest, heavy and numb. She knocks, teeth chattering and eyes downcast, because she should not be here, she never should have been here; yet she cannot seem to stay away and he cannot seem to keep her away. 

Maybe this time he will finally say no. Maybe this time he will finally end it. He was angry enough, she thinks...but humans are stubborn creatures. He is more stubborn than most. This is a fact she both despairs and delights in.

He opens the door. “Allura?” Lance whispers, taking in her bedraggled appearance. He’s tousled from sleep in his T-shirt and boxers, and his mouth falls open seeing her. “What – princess, what happened to you?”

When he calls her princess, it is no longer a title, no longer a threat. It is just a sweet word. It makes her cry.

_ “Allura,”  _ Lance gasps, and starts forward, catching her in his arms when she crumples into him, clinging and weeping. “Hey, princess, shh, okay, c’mere, you’re freezing…” The door clicks shut and suddenly all the lights and noise and rain are gone, and it is just the two of them, huddling together in Lance’s small apartment. 

Allura is proud; they both know this. So when she buries her face in Lance’s shoulder and whispers, “I’m sorry, I was wrong,” he holds her that much tighter. “I was wrong about Keith,” she says, muffled in his shirt and neck, “and now he’s in danger, and maybe I could have stopped it, but I didn’t, oh,  _ Lance, _ when did everything get  _ so fucked up…” _

He chuckles weakly and strokes her hair away from her tearstained face. “Think it’s been fucked up for awhile now, princess,” he murmurs. “You get used to it. Not sure that makes it easier, though.”

She shakes her head. “I want to help,” she says, and looks at him, a lump in her throat. “He is my friend, and I should have protected him, regardless of his DNA. You knew that, Lance. You didn’t even hesitate before jumping to his defense. How? How can you act against the law with such resolve? They’re supposed to be doing the right thing. They’re supposed to be  _ good.” _

Lance cups her cheek, his dark blue eyes solemn and sad. “I know,” he sighs. “But in times like this...people who could have been good people, who were good people once...power changes them.”

Allura presses her face to his neck again. “I don’t want to be like them,” she whispers. “I don’t want to play their cruel games any longer, Lance.”

He makes a soft sound and squeezes her waist gently. “Then you’re already better than the lot of ‘em,” he tells her. “Come on. Let’s get you dried off, you’re getting acid rain all over my floor.”

She snorts, letting him lead her to the bathroom. “It’s not acidic this time,” she says. “Well, maybe a little bit.”

“I wouldn’t drink it, is all I’m sayin,” Lance says, tugging his fluffiest towel off the rack and draping it around her shoulders and hair. She gives him a small smile, and he ducks his head, face flushed. “I’ll, uh, get you some clean clothes,” he mumbles, and hurries off to his bedroom.

She splashes her face in the cracked sink and wipes the makeup and rain away, tilting her head as she studies her reflection in the mirror. Her markings flare, and when she tilts her head a certain way, her eyes shine the cold blue of a nocturnal predator. She lifts her lip with a nail, letting jagged teeth slide free of her gums, and wonders as she often has why Alteans evolved to be so much sharper than humans. 

Humans have blunt teeth, poor night vision, short lifespans, and comparatively weak senses. Yet, they’ve managed to survive on their Earth longer than the Alteans or Galrans survived on Altea or Daibazaal. There’s something to be said for that, Allura thinks. They didn’t have the option of fleeing, so they had to make it last.

“Nice teeth,” Lance says, leaning against the doorframe. He holds up a blue v-neck and a pair of sweatpants Allura recognizes as his self-proclaimed favorite leisure pants. “Will these work?”

“Yes,” she says, stepping away from the mirror and towards him. “Thank you, Lance.”

“Uh-huh,” he says. His eyes are unfocused, struggling not to stare at the gaping front of her thoroughly soaked shirt. She holds back laughter. He’s predictable, and she loves him for it. There are too many secrets, too many lies, too many surprises everywhere else; Lance is a constant. 

Standing before him, she unzips the back of her shirt, wet fabric falling away, forgotten on the floor. His intake of breath is audible, and she rolls her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic, it’s not like they’ve changed since the last time.”

“I dunno,” Lance murmurs, reaching up to cup her breast with the genuine awe that never fails to make her knees go weak, “I think the only acceptable reaction to you is a dramatic one, princess.”

“You’re sweet,” she says, and tugs him in for a kiss, his hand warm on her, squeezing when she coaxes his mouth open against hers. Lance’s arms circle her waist, hand slipping between them to undo the zips and buttons of her skirt, and when his fingers touch pink lace he chuckles into her smile. 

“Funny how these are the one dry thing,” he snorts. “For once.”

She honks out a laugh that surprises them both and slumps back against the wall, giggling uncontrollably and covering her face with a hand. “Oh my god,” she says, “you are – the  _ worst – !” _

“Oh, am I?” Lance is grinning, stepping into the welcoming sprawl of her legs, fingers dipping under the elastic and finding coarse white hair. “That’s not the message I’m getting, here.”

She bites her lip as slim fingers venture further, and when they rub and spread the way she likes, she gasps, “I’m still cold, Lance,” and yanks him to her, hooking her fingers into his worn boxers. 

“How about now,” Lance murmurs, mouth sliding over her neck, body covering hers, and _ yes, _ this is what she needed. And it isn’t just his touch, earnest and tender, but  _ him, _ because she has never found happiness easier than when she is with Lance. 

She tells him this, words tucked into the shell of his ear, and Lance shudders against her, palms sliding under her thighs, lifting her as her toes flex and arms settle around his neck.  _ “I love you,” _ she says, breathing him in, kissing over the pound of his pulse as he slides home.

*

Somehow they made it to the bed; Allura can’t remember how. 

But she lays there now beside Lance, his slumbering, bare body curled to her side, arm slung over her waist. She blinks at him, and moves a hand to her belly, pressing down and idly imagining a reply from within her. A kick, a heartbeat, a quickening of life.

Such thoughts are even more dangerous than their relationship. In that moment, she doesn’t care. 

She thinks of Bandor, and of all the children like him. Precious Altean children, used as tools in cold white labs when they should have been cherished in homes full of love. 

Hybrid Alteans are rare; they strive to keep their bloodlines pure. For the heir to Alfor’s Syndicate to join with a human would be unthinkable. Yet, Allura thinks about it. She thinks about it often. And she thinks that pure bloodlines perhaps have little place, these days. She wants to live, not survive. She can imagine living with Lance.

There’s a hard knock at the door. Allura bolts upright, ears pricked, and Lance stirs sleepily. She nudges him. “You have a visitor,” she murmurs, fumbling to pull on the shirt and sweatpants forgotten beside the bed. It’s nearly dawn, still too early for normal visiting hours, and trepidation creeps up her spine.

Lance rubs his eyes, confused, and the person knocks again, harder this time. His brow furrows, and he stumbles out of bed, pulling on his boxers and the same T-shirt from before and looking at Allura with a frown. “Maybe you should stay here, princess…”

She shifts, letting her features settle into something more human. “No,” she says. “Go answer the door.”

He nods, and she trails after him as he goes to the door, peering through the peephole. “Oh, shit,” he mutters. He opens the door reluctantly. “Hi, Veronica.”

Allura’s head pops up from behind his shoulder. Veronica’s already stormy expression darkens further. “Lance,” his older sister grits out, arms folded, her Garrison uniform too bright in the dim hall. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about someone named BIRDN3RD hacking into the goddamn Equinox Apartments' Eva mainframe, would you?”

_ “Uh,” _ Lance says.

*

Shiro is almost offended by how little security the hacker’s garage has. A few quickhacks, and he’s in, slipping silently through the back door and activating his hand. It was smart of them to make their IP address different from their home address, but less smart of them to fall asleep at their desk. Shiro makes his way across the room, stepping over discarded spinner parts and a truly impressive mess of papers, wires, gears, clothes, and snack wrappers. The closer he gets, the more he can see of the figure slumped over at their desk, and once he’s a few feet away, he pauses. 

They’re very young; he doubts they’re older than twenty. He thinks they’re a girl, curled up in her swivel chair with knees tucked in tight, skinny arms pillowing their head, a pair of round glasses slipping down their upturned nose. Shiro tilts his head. This was not what he was expecting. 

She’s so _ tiny. _ It would be very easy to crush her. The thought makes him flinch and take a step back, right onto a discarded bag of chips.

The girl’s head snaps up at the sound, and her sleepy expression twists into terrified when her eyes meet Shiro’s. She stumbles out of the swivel chair, but catches her ankle on an armrest and goes sprawling onto the floor, chest heaving and eyes huge. “Stay away from me,” she snaps, and yanks a small sort of blade from her belt while scrambling to her feet. It won’t do much against his arm.

“You’re the one who commandeered Eva?” Shiro asks. She’s shaking. He wishes she wouldn’t.

“You’re the one who kidnapped Keith,” she hisses. 

He shrugs. “In a manner of speaking. Friend of yours?”

“Fuck you.” He worries she’ll drop her weapon; she’s trembling so badly. “He’s a good person; whatever you think he did, if he did it, it was for a good reason.”

_ Interesting theory. _ “I’m afraid the Garrison doesn’t care much about intention, only action.” He frowns at her. “Don’t change the subject. I can’t have you trying to break Keith out again. You’re clearly talented and clever, and neither of those are helpful traits for me. I’d rather deal with them at the root before they become a problem again; you understand.”

She turns on her heel and runs.

Like a sighthound with the instinct to chase ingrained in its code, Shiro pursues her, and she doesn’t even make it out of the garage before he pins her to the far wall, his chest pressed to her struggling back. She sobs, ragged and furious, and the sound pierces through him like a blade. “Do it,” she gasps, bowing her head against the wall. “You bastard, just do it already –”

He  _ can’t. _

Shiro steps away, and she collapses, falling to her knees and curling in on herself. Shiro’s head is filled with static, an overwhelming cloud of white noise that sends him stumbling back, horrified by her soft crying, more horrified that he is the cause of it.

The fragmented memory of another figure, crouched and begging on the bloodstained ground before him, flashes through his mind with vivid violence. They were innocent. They were another prisoner, another human, like him. They made him kill them. He had no choice.

He has a choice now.

Shiro walks away.

*

As the first rays of sunlight slip past the window shade in the quiet apartment, Keith stirs on the bed, groaning in a familiar and visceral pain. Then he goes still, eyes snapping open, cold sweat prickling on his flushed skin. 

It’s too early for this. This  _ can’t _ be happening, not  _ here, _ not  _ now.  _

But the sickening curl of heat deep in his belly has never lied before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot is well underway now, guys! god i love allura & allurance wow who's with me
> 
> for more gridlocked stuff including ship/character moodboards for this fic (bc i cant seem to stop making those), [check out my gridlocked tumblr tag](http://saltyshiro.tumblr.com/tagged/gridlocked). 
> 
> next chapter is, uh. pretty nsfw, and much more sheith focused than this one. but also get ready for that sweet sweet fluff & angst & hurt/comfort.....
> 
> thanks as always for your comments & kudos~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs hands together* enjoy
> 
> these two are the most chaotic neutral characters i think i've ever written, jesus christ. it's so much fun. 
> 
> thank you for your comments & kudos <3 they mean the world to me

_“No,”_ Keith gasps in disbelief, toes curling at the slightest brush of his cock against the sheets through the sweatpants, “no, _no,_ this can’t be happening _. Fuck.”_

Pain ripples through his body and he feels his cock swell, shifting into an alien shape that chafes between his thighs, smooth pale flesh reshaping into purpling bumps and ridges, balls drawing up too tight and heavy against his body. Groaning, Keith presses his face into the pillow as he kicks off the sweatpants and takes himself in hand, struggling to keep his claws away and his voice down. He comes within seconds, jolting as if electrocuted, peering at the violet splotching over his skin in dismay.

Keith curls into himself, breathing too loud in the dark room, cock leaking over his knuckles as he continues to stroke and rut into the rumpled sheets. It’s not enough, and his breath tightens in his chest with visceral fear when he feels the growing ache deep in his belly. _No._ Maybe if he ignores it, it will go away. That’s never worked in the past, but maybe this time, nature will take pity on him and give him peace.

Ten minutes later, and he’s cursing into the pillow, slickness coating his thighs, his cock hard for the third time and his body thrumming with agonizing need. Keith knows from too many years of experience that if he continues to ignore it, in ten more minutes, he’ll be screaming from the pain...like a goddamn cat in heat. That’s not far from the truth.

He squeezes his eyes shut, claws digging into the pillows, kneading and slicing through them like hot knives through butter. He can’t scream, or Shiro will hear him. He needs to get control of this before it gets control over him entirely.

Fingers trembling and claws willed away, Keith reaches down between his legs, past his swollen cock, and feels for the slit just behind his balls which is usually dry and unresponsive. As soon as he finds it, his stomach drops — the folds are puffy and soaking wet, and a single touch wrenches a gasp from his throat and a disgusting flood of warm, sticky fluid from his insides. It drips down his twisted wrist; viciously tingling, vibrantly magenta, and vaguely bioluminescent. Keith stares at the ceiling, plunges two fingers inside himself, and wishes for a swift death.

He loves his mother, but sometimes he hates her for cursing him with this.

It hasn’t been this bad in years. He remembers blurry conversations about hormones and stress and alien environments worsening their biological cycles, _heh,_ alien, _fuck,_ Keith can’t stop the strangled cry that falls from his lips as his fingers spread wide and crook against what must be close to his prostate.

As soon as he makes the sound, he freezes, heartbeat thundering in his ears. It takes a grand total of thirty seconds before the door bursts open, Shiro’s silhouette dark in the doorway. He’s holding a weapon, a taser or handgun; Keith doesn’t know.

“Keith?!”

Keith makes a piteous noise, trying to cover himself with the sheets, curled tight and shaking against the headboard. The room is flooded with a cloying miasma of pheromones, and a Galra would understand this mess with a single sniff, but Shiro takes a step into the room, his partly-illuminated face filled with genuine confusion.

“Did you hurt yourself? What —”

“Go,” Keith gasps, lifting his head to stare with frantic yellow eyes. “Get out!”

Shiro blinks, and Keith sees his lips part; sees him inhale and blink again, harder. Humans may not understand Galran pheromones the way Galra do, but Keith thinks Shiro smells _something._ “Oh,” is all Shiro says, pupils dilated.

“Get the fuck _out,”_ Keith pleads, and Shiro stares at him a moment longer, gaze flickering down to the faint glow between Keith’s legs, not fully concealed by the thin sheets. Then he turns on his heel and slams the door shut behind him. His footsteps are heavy and audible as he leaves.

He’ll be back, Keith knows, and the thought terrifies him. He huddles inwards, teeth bared and elongated ears pinned; he feels like a small, trapped, feral creature. He imagines tearing Shiro’s throat open with his teeth as soon as he walks back through that door, and as if this wasn’t fucked up enough, the violent image coaxes another deluge of slickness from his fluttering slit. Keith sobs into the pillow, riding out the waves of pain and want.

He swears he can taste blood on his tongue, and realizes the next moment that he’s sliced his lips open. But he can imagine it’s Shiro’s blood — no, shit, he can’t think about Shiro, because then he thinks of what will happen if he doesn’t manage to kill Shiro when he returns.

Keith only ever let Acxa fuck him; he doesn’t let humans between his legs. The idea has never been appealing to him. But now, panting and half-mad with his body’s need, Keith thinks it would be all too easy for Shiro to take him. As soon as he got Keith pinned, it would be over. Keith is so wet and open that he would barely have to try to shove his cock inside, even though it’s long, thick, and would stretch Keith wide, as wide as a Galran cock —

He presses his face to the pillow and screams behind his gritted teeth. Is it not enough to be Shiro’s prisoner; must he really be his whore, too? Keith hates this; hates being helpless and at another’s mercy.

People are not merciful, and when you give them power over someone else, they become capable of unbelievable cruelty. He has no illusions about this, nor about what Shiro is capable of. He’s a wealthy bounty hunter, which means he’s good at his job. And he works for the Garrison, which means he left his morals by the wayside a long time ago. Shiro has proved this time and time again. Why should this time be any different?

Keith doesn’t touch himself as he waits, slow tears leaking from the corners of his eyes uncontrollably. He’s not sad, though. He’s numb, trying to mentally prepare himself for what his body has already prepared for. Pain ripples through him every few seconds, sharp contractions that emulate gutting a fish. Keith just lays there in a feverish haze of dull pain and dread, maintaining some control while he still can. He doesn’t know how long it takes; maybe minutes, maybe hours, before the door opens again.

Keith bolts upright with a snarl, summoning up all his strength to lunge at the rectangle of light and the figure within it. But Shiro doesn’t even step into the room. Keith catches a glimpse of his flushed, unreadable face before he drops a bag into the doorway and slams the door shut again, the lock clicking, and another door slamming shortly after.

Keith sits on the bed, brow furrowed. He just...left?

Cautiously, he crawls off the bed and staggers over to the bag. It’s just a plastic bag, but inside — Keith stumbles back, eyes huge and jaw dropping open. He takes another careful peek inside, just to make sure he didn’t imagine it.

There’s a bottle of lube, but it’s not generic brand; it’s warming lube. There’s a box of condoms, the same box he and Shiro used. And, most notably, there are four assorted sex toys — two dildos; one dark blue and huge, and one pale pink and more average; a little black bullet vibrator; and an obnoxiously purple Fleshlight.

They’re wrapped in a black fleece blanket. Keith reaches out and drags his knuckles over it — it’s thick and soft and warm and he immediately wants to wrap himself in it like a burrito and never leave.

He hesitates before withdrawing the blanket and tugging it around his shoulders. The gentle weight comforts him, providing an anchor in the midst of this whirlpool of confusion. Keith pauses. There’s something else in the bag, revealed when he removed the blanket – a water bottle. And...is that a chocolate bar? He hasn’t seen a chocolate bar in years, let alone tasted one.

Keith blinks. Is this a trap? It feels like a trap. Because otherwise...Shiro is being _kind_ to him. And that makes absolutely no sense.

But nothing explodes when he carefully picks up the Fleshlight. He peers into it, feeling silly, but unable to shake his suspicion. It just looks like the inside of a Fleshlight. Not that Keith has seen many of those, but, well…

After another long moment of uncertainty, he takes the bag and its contents and dumps them out on the bed. There’s one other thing, and he plucks it from the sheets, tilting his head at the little scrap of paper. Written on it in hasty pen scribbles is: _Tell Eva if you need anything else._

“What the fuck?” Keith whispers, heart pounding.

He sits on the bed for five naked and bewildered minutes before his body bows in insistent agony, and then Keith can’t stop himself from grabbing the Fleshlight and shoving it down onto his cock.

His shout echoes through the room, and he slumps down to muffle himself in the pillows, rutting relentlessly into the tight silicon sheathe. On every thrust, the ribbed and bumpy edges drag up and down his cock, and after a blurry eternity of frantically seeking friction, he manages to fumble for the warming lube, pouring too much onto his aching cock just before he thrusts back into the artificial orifice.

Keith rolls his hips into delicious heat, panting low and harsh, and when he closes his eyes, he can imagine that there’s a warm body under him, legs locked around his waist, thighs flexing and spine arching, head falling back into the pillows with a spill of helpless gasps and moans. Keith imagines pressing closer, as deep as he can, letting them feel every inch of him, letting them feel full and fucked, letting them feel overwhelmed and claimed, marked by his teeth in their throat and his claws on their skin and –

It’s a shock to his system when he knots, cock pulsing hard enough to send him to his knees, groaning into the pillow as hot cum fills the silicon sleeve and his knot tries to force its way inside. It doesn’t quite work, but the pressure on the swelling base of his cock is still enough to rip another wave of climax from him.

Keith’s moving again before he’s even come down from it, nerves sparking in uneven bursts of pleasure-pain, the obscene squelch of cum and lube slicking the way for his increasingly rough and frantic thrusts. It’s not enough, and he knows that, but he comes three more times that way before he’s finally forced to admit defeat – it’s too much sensation, and his skin is starting to chafe. This toy is meant for a human dick, not a Galra one.

He tosses the Fleshlight aside with little thought to the mess it dribbles out across the floor, and sits up with grim purpose, chest heaving and legs spreading of their own accord. Keith glances at the door, then at the dildos. _No._ He doesn’t think he can bring himself to do that, yet. He plucks the bullet vibrator from the bed instead, holding it critically between thumb and forefinger. He almost drops it when he experimentally pushes the button on the end and the damn thing starts thrumming like a jet engine between his fingers.

The truth is, sex toys, let alone ones that are safe to use, are hard to come by these days. Keith knows, theoretically, how they’re meant to work, but has never actually _used_ them. He wonders, idly, if Shiro has more, and then pushes that thought violently away, scowling and lying curled on his side as he dips the buzzing device between his thighs.

Either it’s on the most powerful setting, or Keith is incredibly sensitive, or both. Either way, he comes as soon as he brushes the stupid thing over his leaking slit, and by the time he finishes spasming and gasping, his slit is leaking in earnest and his cock is hard again.

Keith slams his finger onto the button until he manages to find a lower setting, and this time he shudders upon contact but doesn’t come like he’s been hit by a train, which he considers a victory.

He lies there like that for a while, tiding himself over with the constant thrum over his slit and a slight inwards push of slippery fingers and buzzing silicon whenever the ache becomes too painful. Keith still can’t quite believe that Shiro would give him these and leave with no other motive. The bounty hunter is, well, _cruel._ Manipulative. He lies and he uses people; Keith doubts he’s the first or the last.

Yet...it’s been well over a week, and he still hasn’t delivered Keith to the Garrison, nor has he really tortured him. He’s only hurt Keith when Keith attacked him first. He’s keeping him captive, but...Keith gets warm showers, warm food, a warm bed, and, apparently, sex toys that cost a small fortune. It’s not ideal, and escape is still on his mind...but Keith can imagine thousands of far worse scenarios to be stuck in.

In the lazy afterglow between an orgasm and another wave of arousal, Keith’s mind wanders to Shiro. To how he could have been, in a different world, in another time, before the war and his imprisonment. Keith thinks he must have been kind, once. He has a cynical humor about him, one that Keith doubts would have survived if Shiro had been cruel to begin with. Humor is a coping mechanism. So is wealth, he supposes, and violence. Pain, whether towards others, yourself, or both.

Again, Keith swears he’s heard the name Takashi Shirogane somewhere before. The thought troubles him, nagging and uneasy, because Keith thinks if he can remember it, he might be able to understand Shiro better. It was something bad. Something cruel, crueler than Shiro.

But of course, there are many cruel things in the Grid.

Keith sighs, shaking his head, biting his lip as he jams the bullet vibrator between two fingers that he then slides inside, curling slow and steady. He closes his eyes and tries to call upon comforting memories.

Hugging his father tight, smoke heavy in the air and his father’s gloved hand heavier where it cups Keith’s head like something precious. Leaning into the hard, reassuring muscle of his mother’s shoulder, her tied-back hair tickling his cheek and clawed fingers absentmindedly stroking his hair. Sleeping on his overstuffed sofa with Kosmo at his feet, snuggled up in the worn blanket Antok knitted for him years ago.

Sparring with Thace and Ulaz and Kolivan, sweat dripping down his back and bruises coloring his skin as they collide. Frosting a batch of cupcakes with Hunk and stealing licks from the frosting bowl that Hunk always catches. Draping himself over the back of Pidge’s swivel chair, watching her create brilliant programs out of endless lines of code. Sitting in the cramped backseat of Lance’s spinner, their alcohol-sour breath mingling.

Painting the Pink Lion’s walls with the endlessly effervescent Coran, unable to stop grinning even when a deliberate paintbrush flicks pink all over him. Dancing with Allura under the flashing strobes, her eyes full of laughter. Kissing Acxa in the shadow of a twisted alley, fearless of the night with her pressed against him like a promise.

_How would Shiro fit into that?_ Keith wonders.

If they had known each other, before...he may be cruel, but he’s still beautiful. Keith still finds himself drawn to him, maybe because he sees parts of himself in Shiro; sees what he could have become if he had no Galra blood running through his veins. Would he have fallen far enough to carry out the Garrison’s dirty work for more credits than he’d know what to do with? Keith doesn’t know. But because of this, he can’t bring himself to hate Shiro for what he’s done. He has a job to do; he does it well. Cruel though it may be.

But what if Shiro had taken him home just to have an easy fuck? What if Keith had woken up with Shiro cuddled up to him instead of handcuffed to the headboard? He would have kissed Shiro awake, ran his fingers through messy silver hair until Shiro’s arms settled around him. Keith would have let his kisses wander, down across the scarred expanse of Shiro’s body. He would have sucked his cock again, because he remembers that, and he wants it again. He wants Shiro to fuck his mouth. He wants to fuck Shiro’s mouth, too.

Keith groans as the need inside him throbs, and then he’s discarding the bullet and reaching for the two dildos before he can change his mind. It doesn’t take much to work the smaller one inside of him, but Keith still grunts and sucks in sharp breaths like he’s been punched in the gut, his toes curling as he breaches himself with the toy. Grasping blindly at the base, he pauses when he finds another button, a switch that he cautiously flicks.

The vibrations are less intense, but inside of him, Keith feels them in his fucking throat, and rolls his hips into it, moaning loud and dragging the toy in and out faster, harder. He grinds down onto it without respite, coming once, twice, his entire hand messy with flowing slickness and sticky lube. _Not enough, not enough;_ his body still wants, and after the third orgasm feels more like a punishment than a release, Keith replaces the pinkish dildo with the huge dark blue one. It’s not a vibrator, which is probably for the best; Keith might die otherwise.

_Full,_ he’s so full, and his eyes roll back when he forces it deeper, uncaring of his own body’s limits when the stretch finally satiates the bone-deep need rippling through him. He doesn’t care about that pain if it takes this pain away. His swollen slit expands and contracts around the toy, clenching down on silicon ridges and curves, and Keith throws his head back, turning his face into the blanket and inhaling.

That’s a mistake. The overwhelming scent of a particular human floods his senses. _Shiro,_ his bleary brain screams, _Shiro, he did this for you, he’ll take care of you; bring him here, keep him here, with you, he looked so pretty under you, he’d be so good —_

Keith arches and howls as he shoves the rest of the toy inside him, up to the rounded swell of the base, and comes again. The time for rational thoughts is long gone. _Shiro,_ his aching body sings, _Shiro._

*

Shiro was a biology major, for a hot second, before he switched to astrophysics and the world turned completely on its head. He’s read some things. Reading them in a secondhand textbook, however, is very different from seeing them in the flesh.

As a kid, Shiro’s fascination with the Galra was pure curiosity. When the survivors of an entire race of big purple aliens crash landed Earth, it would have been silly to assume no kids would develop slight obsessions with them, like dinosaurs, or horses, or superheroes. It’s embarrassing, in hindsight. He had a stuffed Galra, or two. Maybe six. His parents thought it was funny.

But as a teenager, and then a young adult, the fascination had, er, shifted somewhat. Human and Galra relationships were becoming less taboo by that point, once people realized that the two species could (more or less) safely reproduce. Galra hybrids, the result of such unions, were even less taboo. Still taboo. Just. _Less._

The thing was, Galra could only reproduce, whether with humans or each other, when they were in heat. In a way, that made them more appealing to humans. Sex without consequences was, after all, something humans had been trying to achieve for years with varying success rates.

But Galra heats themselves were not well understood nor studied, for obvious reasons. Galra were unique in that they were all born intersex. It was still unclear as to how their gender was determined, but the fact remained that both male and female Galra could feasibly bear children. This was how they were able to reproduce so quickly upon settling on Earth; both partners in a union could give birth to up to three or four Galra each.

Of course, the pollution and radiation had taken its toll on the fertility rates of all species. Things were a bit different now.

As for hybrid Galra, it was discovered that while they did retain the tendency to be born intersex, one sex was more obviously defined than the other; a result of their human side. Over the course of their lives, the other sex tended to become less evident. Assigned female hybrids could not produce spermatozoa. Assigned male hybrids could retain wombs, but they were vestigial. Yet, hybrids were still subject to the Galra’s biological reproduction cycles.

Still, heats only happened two or three times a year. Shiro wasn’t expecting Keith to go into heat here, _now._

_Go! Get out!_

Keith is so _afraid._ Of _him._ That’s the thought that lodges itself into Shiro’s mind as he slams the guest bedroom door shut, heart pounding and face hot. He was already shaken from that morning’s failed assassination attempt, but this was really the icing on the cake.

Glowing. It _glows. Why does it glow?_

He shakes himself, slumping against the wall and trying to breathe. “Alright, Takashi,” he whispers, “you have a Galra hybrid in heat locked in your guest bedroom.” He winces just saying it aloud. “A Galra hybrid who also happens to be one of the Garrison’s most wanted criminals...who split your back open with his _claws_ and kissed the hell out of you yesterday...who you should have turned in days ago.”

He pauses. But if he _had_ turned Keith in, and he’d been at the Garrison when this happened...Shiro shudders, taking a few more deep breaths. Calm. He is _so_ calm.

Shiro can do torture. He can do lying and manipulation and general deceit. He can do burns and broken bones and blood.

But _this_ is beyond him. He never wanted to truly humiliate Keith, nor to use him in the way Keith obviously expects him to. He wanted one night with Keith, one good thing, sure, but he never intended to take when he wasn’t wanted.

They’ve stripped his moral code down to its skeleton, but a few tenets remain; the ones he clung to as best he could even when they took his mind away from him.

Shiro doesn’t realize his hand is glowing until the plaster under his palm falls away, burnt and blackened. He sucks in a sharp breath. Standing here panicking isn’t helping anyone, least of all Keith.

Shiro hurries away from the guest bedroom, wracking his brain for details. Unfortunately, college was years ago, and filled with one too many cram sessions. Still…he remembers most of what they didn’t take from him. He remembers Before.

He shoves open his office door and sits down heavily in his desk chair, grabbing a yellowed pad of paper. It’s somewhat of a rarity these days, but Shiro misses it. He prefers the sensation of writing to tapping out words on a tablet.

He starts scribbling down everything he can think of.

_heat lasts 1-2 weeks depending on environment & stimuli _

_often painful – uterine contractions, prolonged arousal, intense sensitivity of touch, smell, & taste _

_heat_ _→ eventual reversion to instinctive behavior fueled by biological drive to reproduce_

_pain cannot be countered via amphetamines/other human painkillers; these can worsen effects_

_intercourse lessens pain; heat ends once fertilization is successful (not possible for male hybrids)_

_like humans, galra are social/pack animals & should not be alone during heats; can cause severe psychological damage & intensify physical/emotional distress _

Shiro puts down his pen, chewing his lip. _Shit._ “You’ve really done it now, Takashi,” he says weakly, putting his head in his hands.

He highly doubts Acxa would react well to him pleading for her to keep Keith company in his cell during a stress-induced heat. And it’s not as if Shiro can go into that room as long as Keith is conscious; he thinks Keith would either attack him or try to get off with him, and neither are ideal.

Then Shiro has an idea, and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

If Krolia wasn’t going to kill him before, she definitely will if she finds out, now.

“Mrreeow?”

Shiro peeks out from between his fingers as a wet nose nudges his hand. “Pandora, you know you shouldn’t be on my desk,” Shiro scolds halfheartedly. Unswayed, she butts her head against his hand again, sits back on her haunches, and stares at him with merciless feline accusation.

_“Mrow,”_ she insists, and bats at him with her remaining front paw.

“Okay, fine,” Shiro grumbles, standing and scooping her up in his arms. “I get the message, wallowing in panic is ineffective.” Pandora squirms while purring, because she is the queen of mixed signals, and Shiro gives her an affectionate squeeze before depositing her gently onto the couch.

She gives him a look that roughly translates to, _Did you really think that would work?_ and proceeds to hop off the couch and follow Shiro to his bedroom.

“This is a terrible idea,” Shiro tells himself as he opens his nightstand drawer and rummages through his socks and underwear. “Pandy, if I get mauled by Keith – again – don’t eat my corpse, please.” He pauses. “Well, if you’re starving, do what you have to, but…ah. I _do_ still have these. Fantastic.”

Shiro holds up a mismatched handful of sex toys, and sighs. “I hope these still work,” he says, and tosses them onto the bed. “Please don’t touch those,” he tells Pandora. Pandora sneezes on his foot. Shaking his head, Shiro goes to the kitchen. “Eva,” he says, “please open my VPN server ‘Shirogone.’”

_Opening VPN Shirogone. That is still a very bad pun, sir._

“Didn’t ask,” Shiro retorts as a holoscreen opens in the air in front of him. “I need information on Galra heats. Factual information, not tabloid shit.”

Eva pauses. _This wouldn’t have anything to do with –_

“Eva, this is all on your private files, nowhere else,” Shiro snaps, gripping the edge of the counter hard. “Or I’ll wipe your memory again, and we don’t want that, do we?”

_No, sir. Searching for most recent studies on Galra heats. About 56,000 results in 0.22 seconds._

Shiro scrolls through them, eyes narrowed. Too many of them are studies published by the Arus Institute, and the implications there are disturbing, to say the least. “Any written by Galra?”

_This may be relevant, sir._ A page pops up, and its intended audience is clearly teenage Galra. There are fun fonts and the phrase, “your changing body” keeps coming up.

“Really?” Shiro says. “A Galra puberty manual?”

_Galra hybrids,_ Eva says, _specifically._

Sly AI. “Alright,” Shiro relents, scrolling through it. There are a lot of diagrams. So many diagrams. The worst part? Shiro’s pretty sure he’s seen some of them before. He pauses over a section tilted: “Going Into Heat Away From Home.”

Eva, helpfully, highlights several lines, including:

_Have someone familiar stay with you between bouts of heat. Talking, cuddling, and even just sitting together can help with regulating hormones and putting you more at ease._

_Ask if they can cook for you. Galra heats are centered around not only a need to reproduce, but to find comfort and security with a mate or pack. Having someone to care for you may be a little embarrassing, but your body will thank you for it._

_Don’t forget to stay hydrated and replenish your calories, as your body is constantly burning them during heat! Dark chocolate can be great for this purpose; other candy may be too sweet._

_While in heat, everything will be hypersensitive, especially your sense of touch. Bundling up in the warmest, softest blankets and pillows you can find will not only dampen this hypersensitivity, but will emulate the kind of nest Galra traditionally make with their mates for raising young._

“I think that’s enough,” Shiro says. He can’t think about _Keith_ and _nesting_ in the same sentence, but he makes a mental note to purchase more bedding, anyway.

For now, the black fleece throw blanket on the sofa will have to do. It’s an old and favored blanket, but he doubts he’ll want it back after this. With a sigh, he stuffs it into a plastic bag, along with the sex toys, the only box of condoms he owns, a mostly new container of warming lube (or should he just throw in normal lube, too? He decides that might be a little much), a bottle of water, and, after some hesitation, a bar of dark chocolate. His dark chocolate bars are also among his most treasured possessions, but he’ll have to buy more food later anyway, so he says his goodbyes.

Shiro scribbles out a little note for good measure, in case there was something he missed. He thinks his handwriting conveys his panic a little too well.

He stares at the plastic bag for a long moment, debating whether or not he’s an idiot for doing this, decides he already knows the answer to that, and hurries off to Keith’s room with it.

Before opening the door, Shiro braces himself. Quick in and out. He can do this.

He opens the door and as expected, Keith lunges, snarling, a feral light shining in his glowing eyes. Shiro drops the bag, slams the door shut, and practically runs down the hall.

Pandora stares at him judgmentally from his bed when he ducks into his bedroom, breathing hard.

“Maow,” she says, and hops onto him uninvited when he flops onto his bed. Shiro frowns at her, and she kneads his chest with her single front paw, pricking tiny holes into his shirt. He lets her, stroking her little head and flicking ears as she purrs contentedly and rubs her face all over his hand.

She’s one of the only things that keeps him sane, these days. He found her not long after his rehabilitation at the Garrison, during a secret escapade into the Zones. Some unfortunate pregnant cat must have wandered into one of the ruined buildings to give birth, and Shiro had stumbled upon the litter of dead kittens with horror – dead, all except for one, a runty thing mewing at the top of its tiny lungs, its front right paw malformed and cancerous.

Shiro took the kitten home without a second thought. He’d bribed as many Garrison scientists as he could to decontaminate her and amputate the useless leg when she was big enough to survive the surgery. In return, Pandora taught him how to be gentle again. He had spent so many months forced to use his hands for unimaginable cruelty towards other living things; it was both terrifying and wonderful to hold something so small and precious in those same hands.

She should have been feral, yet as soon as he’d tucked her into his jacket pocket, she’d begun to purr in between mews. She trusted him by some miracle, even after she woke up with only three legs – she’d stood up on her three paws, unsteady from the pain medication, and tottered over to curl up in Shiro’s lap and fall asleep. Maybe she simply had poor survival instincts, but she never so much as shied away from his prosthetic. To her, it’s not a dangerous weapon or a disability. It just _is._

One day, he’ll get her a prosthetic too, as soon as he finds someone willing to make it. She manages just fine on three legs in the meantime.

Pandora nips his finger and Shiro pokes her in retaliation. “Oh, what,” Shiro grumbles. “The deed is done, get over it.”

Keith _shouts._ Shiro flinches. Pandora lifts her head, ears pricked. Shiro covers her ears. “You don’t need to hear that,” he tells her, his face hot when Keith keeps making _noises;_ well, at least that means the toys probably work.

Pandora squirms out of his grasp, irritated by the ear-touching, and hops off the bed, padding out of the room and stretching. Shiro gets up and peeks around the edge of the doorway, watching as she pads across the floor to stop in front of Keith’s room, sniffing at the doorway. She immediately startles away, fur puffing up, and hurries back to Shiro.

“Please tell me this isn’t gonna make you go into heat, too,” Shiro says to her.

She sniffs, looking offended that he would even suggest such a thing, and stalks away, tail held high.

“Sorry,” Shiro mutters, right before Keith screeches at full volume like he’s being brutally murdered.

He’s not going to be getting any sleep here, today.

Sighing, Shiro rolls out of bed, tugs on his jacket, and makes a valiant but unsuccessful effort to coax Pandora out of her hiding place under his armchair. She’s as discomfited by the noise as Shiro is, and with some sympathy Shiro wonders if she has an inkling of what’s transpiring in that room, and fervently hopes she’s clueless.

“I’ll bring some of those salmon treats home for you tonight,” he whispers, and gets a clawed finger for his troubles.

As he leaves, he glances over his shoulder, and mutters, “Eva? Whenever Keith is, er, coherent, please ask him what his favorite foods are. And drinks. Non-alcoholic drinks. Then notify me.”

_Alright, sir. Enjoy your day._

“Doubtful,” Shiro says, and leaves, kicked out of his own home by a horny Galra hybrid. Sometimes, it just be like that. Apparently.

*

By the time the haze of need lifts enough for Keith to think again, the sun is beginning to set.

Everything hurts. Particularly his stomach. Fuck, he’s starving. He devoured the chocolate bar hours ago, and wishes he’d had half a mind to ration it out.

He turns his face into the pillow and whimpers, curling his knees up to his chest and wincing as he does so. Damn it, of all the times for this to happen...so much for another escape. He’s so weak like this that it’s almost laughable, and worse, it’s his own fault that he’s exhausted. He supposes he can blame Shiro, too.

Keith lifts his head and casts a wary glance at the toys. Lucid, he understands the bounty hunter’s apparent gesture of goodwill even less. Keith _thoroughly_ vetted those toys, and there’s nothing remotely wrong with them, except that the vibrators ran out of battery a few hours ago. And Keith thinks that’s probably just because they weren’t meant to be used for ten hours straight, which is...fair.

_Hello, Guest Keith._

“Jesus _fuck!”_ Keith shrieks, bolting upright and immediately feeling like he’s torn several important muscles.

_My apologies, Guest Keith. I did not mean to startle you._

Keith glares at the ceiling and flops back down into bed (gingerly). “Hell do you want?” he demands. “Don’t tell me you can charge up sex toys.”

Eva pauses. _If they are wireless devices connected to the home network –_

“Nevermind. What d’you want.”

_Mr. Shirogane requested that I ask you what your favorite foods and beverages are,_ Eva says.

Keith opens and closes his mouth soundlessly. “Um. Why?”

_If I were to guess,_ Eva says, _which I cannot do, as it is not in my programming, then I would guess Mr. Shirogane wishes to purchase and prepare sustenance for you, Guest Keith._

“No,” Keith snaps, hands curling into the sheets. “No, I won’t – what the fuck? _No.”_

_Pardon?_

“You can tell Mr. Shirogane,” Keith grits out, “that he can fuck right off with – with whatever he’s trying to do, here.”

_You have not eaten –_

“Then I’ll starve! I don’t want him cooking all special or _whatever_ for me when I’m – I’m…” Keith swallows hard. “I’m his _prisoner._ Do you understand that? Not his _guest._ He can pretend all he likes, but the reality is that he’s keeping me locked in this room and he would have killed me before he let me leave this damn building. So _no,_ I don’t want his expensive food. I don’t want his faux hospitality just so he can feel better about himself. If he’s going through with this, then I’m not going to let him sugarcoat it.”

_Would you like me to pass this message on to Mr. Shirogane?_ Eva asks politely.

Keith scowls. “Yes,” he says. “In fact…” He eyes the toys, conflicted. He’s about to make this a lot more difficult for himself. “In fact, I want you to pass on a couple of messages. One, is what I just told you. Two…”

Keith grabs the pink vibrator, grits his teeth, and hurls it across the opposite wall so hard that it snaps in half. He crushes the bullet vibrator against the headboard, then splits open the silicon cover of the Fleshlight and the dildo with his claws and teeth. He guesses that’s at least a thousand creds down the drain.

_Two is that you are breaking things?_

“Tell him exactly what I broke,” Keith growls. “And tell him the second day? Is always the worst.”

Keith is playing with fire but in that moment, he doesn’t give a single shit. He’s starving, and horny, and furious, and he’s going to be in a world of hurt tomorrow whether Shiro likes it or not.

*

“He did _what?”_ Shiro hisses, bracing himself on the filthy alley wall as Eva relays her logs to him in a tone that is far too calm considering the very upsetting words she is saying. “Is he _trying_ to make this worse for himself?”

_Yes,_ Eva says. _It appears he is inflicting pain upon himself to spite you. If I had to guess. Which I cannot do._

Shiro’s jaw works. He hasn’t had enough alcohol to deal with this. “What else, Eva.”

_When I asked him to tell me his favorite foods and beverages, he told me to tell you that ‘he can fuck right off with whatever he’s trying to do here.’ He then went on a tirade._

She plays the tirade for him, Keith’s anger crackling through with frightening vitriol.

Shiro pauses and frowns. “I...see.” He frowns some more, considering. He can’t say he would do differently, in Keith’s position. He’s not good at trusting either, and Keith has absolutely no reason to trust him. Keith is, indeed, his prisoner. But Shiro strongly dislikes the idea of abandoning Keith to potentially several weeks of agony and isolation when every instinct is screaming for him to have company.

_Do you have additional instructions, sir?_

Shiro nods slowly. “Yes,” he says. “Search for closest adult entertainment stores. Then, we’re going grocery shopping.”

Keith underestimates his patience. Shiro’s not going to give up on him that easily.

*

It’s very disconcerting to come home to silence after the racket Keith was making earlier. Shiro steps cautiously inside, arms full of shopping bags, including dinner. He got sushi, based on a vague memory of his Mom waxing poetic about the endless benefits of eating fish during menstruation. Hopefully, this is close enough. He sets the haul down on the counter, ignoring Pandora’s whining at his feet while he takes out the boxed-up sushi rolls and rummages through his cabinets.

He makes two cups of chai tea, humming quietly to himself, all the while listening intently for any movement from Keith’s room. He rarely uses his enhanced hearing, and feels strange about using it now, but it brings him undeniable relief when the faint sound of Keith’s snoring reaches his ears.

_“MREOEW!”_ Pandora exclaims, glowering up at him. She doesn’t appreciate that his attention is divided. Shiro rolls his eyes, tells her she is spoiled and he loves her very much, and opens her new can of salmon treats. While she gobbles them up, Shiro takes two boxes of sushi, complete with rice and all the sauces, along with one of the cups of chai, and brings them to Keith’s room. He listens at the door for a moment, and the snores continue.

Shiro cracks the door open, and stops dead in his tracks.

It’s like a crime scene. The smell is what hits him first, and then the sight of scattered bits of shredded sex toys, the walls gouged with sharp claws, and then the realization that the purple is never going to come out of the sheets. Among other things.

And then, of course, there’s Keith. He didn’t bother to cover himself with the sheets, though his curled up position gives him a modicum of modesty. If Shiro couldn’t hear him softly snoring, he would be worried Keith was comatose. But Keith doesn’t react at all when he approaches and sets the food and tea down on the nightstand.

He’s shifted to look as Galra as Shiro assumes he can look, and though his skin is splotched with violet, his ears are pointed and curved, and his dark tattoos could very well be Galran markings, the sight of him doesn’t set off the automatic mental alarm bells Shiro hears with every other Galra. He’s just so...small. It’s a silly thought, Shiro knows. Keith is deadly, a force of nature to be reckoned with. But...like this, naked and vulnerable and asleep, he looks so much softer. It doesn’t help that he’s clutching the blanket Shiro gave him to his chest, burying his face in it.

Shiro tries not to read too much into that. He could spare another blanket, though...and Keith must be cold…

After leaving the food, he returns again, this time with an old gray comforter. He drapes it over Keith until only the dark tufts of his hair stick out. Keith moves, and Shiro leaps away, at once on the defensive...but he only mumbles something low and wordless before snuggling into the comforter, his breaths evening out once more.

“Goodnight,” Shiro whispers, because it feels like what he ought to say, and leaves in a hurry.

*

Keith awakes warm, and not from his heat.

There’s...a duvet over him. One that most certainly wasn’t in the room before. He jolts up, only to groan at the sensation of slickness covering his inner thighs. Good morning, indeed. His circadian rhythm is seriously fucked up; he’s used to being nocturnal, and now on his heat, everything is just made more confusing…

“Focus, Keith,” he mutters to himself. “Shiro came into your room and put a duvet over you last night. And he could have done any number of other – _he got food.”_

Keith zeroes in on the sushi and cup of what looks to be tea on the nightstand. The tea is still warm – thermocups are a wonderful invention – and the sushi looks fresh out of the ocean it definitely didn’t come from. Still, Keith hesitates. He said he wasn’t going to give in to this.

Hunger gnaws at his belly, and it is, as they say, a very good motivator. Besides, if Keith doesn’t at least try to keep some of his strength up, he’ll never get out of here.

So he eats the sushi and drinks the tea, and definitely doesn’t almost cry from how good they both taste.

Sadly, his day goes downhill from there.

In hindsight, Keith hates himself for destroying the toys. His sense of logic and reasoning is more than a little lacking during his heat.

He _especially_ hates himself when he’s got four fingers inside himself up to the knuckles, and it still isn’t enough, and he can barely keep his claws from making a very unwanted appearance. Although, he muses, it would serve Shiro right to walk in and see Keith eviscerating himself on his claws.

But Keith’s not _that_ crazy. Yet, anyway.

He passes out from the pain around noon after screaming himself hoarse for two hours straight.

When he wakes up, he’s not in bed, anymore. He’s...in a bathtub. A very warm bathtub, with the most wonderfully scented soap in the world, and he stretches luxuriously for a moment, drunk off the blessed respite from his vicious cramps...only to go stiff as a board when he realizes who must have drawn up this bath for him and moved him into it.

Keith tries to stand up; his knees immediately give out under him and he slips on the porcelain, nearly breaking his tailbone in the process. His pained yelp echoes through the bathroom, and to his horror, someone chuckles from outside the door.

“Oh good, you’re awake. I was afraid you went under.”

Keith glares at the locked door in disbelief. “How _dare_ you!” he snarls.

“How dare I put you in a nice warm bath to soothe the pain after you were screaming bloody murder all morning?” Shiro says dryly. “Pretty sure I’ve done worse things.”

Keith throws the bar of soap at the door. It makes a very unimpressive thud and falls to the tile in small, splintered chunks.

“Was that the soap?” Shiro says after a pause.

“Let me out!” Keith demands. “What are you doing in there, anyway?”

“Cleaning the room and giving you fresh sheets; these are a fucking mess, literally,” Shiro retorts. Keith flushes, sinking down in the bathwater until his lower face is submerged. “Don’t worry, I kept my hands to myself, if that’s what you’re concerned about. Bundled you up in a towel and everything. It was adorable, actually.”

_“Adorable,”_ Keith mutters to himself, and blows angry underwater bubbles. “I don’t know what game you’re playing at,” Keith shouts, “but you’re not going to get any information out of me by being nice, Shirogane!”

“Did he just call me nice, Eva?” Shiro asks.

_That appears to be the case, sir._

“AUGH!” Keith yells, slamming his fists down on the bathtub, to little effect. He doesn’t want to break the bath, anyway...it’s a good bath. He missed taking baths…shit, he needs to stop letting his mind wander. He can’t let Shiro get the edge on him, here...even though he probably already has it.

Keith is in his bathtub, naked, in heat, locked in the guest bathroom, which is locked in the guest bedroom, which is locked in his inescapable apartment building, which is in the center of the Grid. Keith couldn’t have less edge if he tried. At the realization, he slumps further into the water, fuming and miserable.

“Are you done?” Shiro asks, from right outside the door.

“What do you want with me?” Keith asks dully, his voice pathetic even to his own ears.

Shiro sounds surprised, and...wary. “What?”

“You haven’t turned me over to the Garrison yet,” Keith continues. “And you haven’t tortured me yet, either. Are you going to torture me now? That would be smart. I’m vulnerable, will be vulnerable, for the next week, at least. You could get very creative with the torture, too.”

Shiro’s sharp intake of breath is loud, too loud. “Keith, that is not –”

“Oh, you want to make the bold claim that you don’t want to fuck me? Bullshit. I saw the way you looked at me in the Pink Lion. And you already knew I was a hybrid, then. So, what did you think? That I would let you –”

_“Keith.”_ His tone stops Keith’s rambling in its tracks. Keith sinks further, until he is little more than a damp mess of black hair, purple ear tips, and narrow golden eyes under furrowed brows.

Shiro’s shadow is visible from the crack under the door. Keith hopes he slips on the soap and breaks his neck. But he doesn’t hope that, not really. And that’s the worst part.

“I have no plans to torture you during your heat,” Shiro says. “I am...sorry you think I am the kind of man who would. I haven’t given you much reason to think otherwise. But I wouldn’t. Do that. To you, or anyone.”

Keith stays below the water, frowning.

“Listen,” Shiro sighs, “I’m not asking you to trust me. In fact, don’t. Trusting me is a terrible decision.” Keith snorts, making more bubbles. “But stop hurting yourself or expecting me to. As it stands, I have no plans to torture you whatsoever. I received an update from the Garrison today. They don’t need me to get the intel out of you. They just need _you._ Evidently, the Garrison will take care of the rest.” Keith shivers. “Which is why I don’t intend to deliver you to them in this state.”

Keith lifts his head slowly.

“I’m only in this for the bounty,” Shiro says. “After that, I could care less if the Garrison is ultimately unsuccessful with getting the intel they need – I believed you when you said you wouldn’t tell me any of it, no matter what. But if you’re going to retain that resolve when you’re in the Garrison’s clutches, you’re going to need to be in full health, not recovering from the worst heat sickness of your life.”

Keith opens his mouth, then closes it. “Since when have you cared about my health?” he finally snaps, because Shiro seems to be waiting for a reply.

“Since your terms and conditions changed,” Shiro says.

For some reason, that makes Keith bark out a laugh. It’s a very Shiro thing to say.

The doorknob jiggles. “Are you drowning?!”

Keith snorts, and covers his mouth, not sure why his face is so warm. “No,” he says. “Are you calling a truce?”

“I’m still keeping you against your will, so, debatable…”

“A stalemate, then,” Keith says. His mouth twitches, though nothing about this situation is funny. He’s starting to feel funny again, though. “We’re _gridlocked.”_

“What was that? Was that a _pun?”_

“It’s really...warm in here,” Keith says, leaning his head back against the edge of the tub and staring at the ceiling dazedly. It seems to be getting closer to him, closing in over his head, and he can’t feel his limbs, only the hollow need pulsing through him, and the hot water, fuck, it’s _too_ hot, it’s _burning_ him, and he doesn’t realize he’s crying out until the door bursts open and Shiro is suddenly right next to him, face swimming in Keith’s vision.

Keith groans, trying to curl away, and flails uselessly when Shiro heaves him up and out of the tub. Then the air is too cold, and Keith whimpers, struggling as a towel wraps around him, too rough against his skin, chafing at his chest. He forgets all about that when Shiro scoops him up, carrying him bridal-style out of the bathroom. Shiro’s heartbeat thunders in Keith’s sensitive ears, and his pulse echoes it; he’s too weak to lift his head from where it leans against Shiro’s chest. He settles with a few petulant kicks.

“Okay, _okay,”_ Shiro mutters, and he lowers Keith onto the bed, still wrapped in the towel. The sheets are much cleaner than before, and Keith sheds the towel impatiently, burrowing under the fresh sheets and rubbing his face on them, eyes falling shut at the soothing sensation.

Shiro covers him with the duvet, the same gray one as before, but this time peppered with bleach stains and smelling like what Keith is fairly sure must be over the counter Galra pheromone spray. Come to think of it...the soap smelled like the same thing.

Keith’s not complaining. Strange, though, that the bounty hunter would go to all that trouble...

Shiro’s still standing beside the bed. Keith cracks an eye open.

“Can I interest you in telling me what your favorite food and drink is, now?” Shiro asks, arms folded.

“Can I interest you in buying me more black market sex toys?” Keith drawls, yawning and glowering at him over the edge of the duvet.

To his utter bewilderment, Shiro says, “Already done. They’ll be here in an hour or two, actually.”

“Oh,” Keith says, and squints at him suspiciously. There has to be a catch. Maybe imprisonment and eventual torture in the Garrison is the catch. Maybe.

After a minor staring contest, Shiro throws up his hands, sighs, and walks away.

“Cheeseburger,” Keith blurts.

Shiro stops. “Huh?”

“My favorite food,” Keith says. “I like cheeseburgers. With beef, not whatever Soylent Green concoction they got these days.”

Real beef is expensive as hell. So is cheese.

But Shiro just smiles, rich bastard. “Alright,” he says. “And your favorite drink?”

“Milkshake,” Keith says sweetly, and rolls over.

“What kind?”

“Don’t care,” Keith retorts, “as long as there’s a cherry on top.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo i've been having kind of an overwhelming/shit week lmao sometimes it just be like that I guess!! 
> 
> i hope y'all have been faring better than me. here's a long ass chapter with a LOT of things happening that may shed some more light on past (and future) events in this story...i hope you enjoy~

Pidge shakes her head. “I just don’t get it,” she whispers, hunched over in her chair, shaking hands folded tight in her lap. “Why would he let me live?”

“I still can’t believe he was  _ here,” _ Hunk exclaims, glancing nervously at the doors, now outfitted with the strongest security mechanisms he and Shay could build. Beside him, Shay squeezes his shoulder reassuringly, though her expression is troubled.

“I’ll kill him, I swear,” Lance says under his breath. Allura gives him a sharp look from where she sits next to Pidge in front of the monitors. “Princess, c’mon. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t.”

She sniffs and shakes her head. “I did not agree to help you out of a thirst for violence, Lance. I am here to help Keith, and I suppose to protect you all if that bounty hunter changes his mind about being merciful.” 

“If you ask me,” Coran says from the other side of the room, despite the fact that absolutely no one asked him, “you really ought to go to your father about this, Princess Allura. It isn’t wise to be meddling about in Garrison business!”

Pidge’s jaw works. “I’m glad you’re here, Allura, but did we really have to bring  _ him _ into this?”

Allura sighs. “We’ve discussed this, Coran. This bounty hunter is a freelancer, not a Garrison official. There is no meddling, only attempting to save our friend. In any case, as my adviser, you are sworn to remain loyal to me, not my father.”

“Besides,” Matt says, nodding pointedly at Veronica, “at this point, it’s the Garrison meddling with the Garrison.” Veronica adjusts her glasses, folds her arms, and exhales forcefully through her nostrils. She looks like she would rather be anywhere but here; still, among the Serranos, blood means loyalty. Veronica would never betray her brother, irritating though he and his friends may be.

Coran frowns. “There is no need to doubt my loyalty, Princess,” he insists. “I would simply like to express that I think we are utterly in over our heads, here. I’ve done some digging into this Garrison bounty hunter’s profile, and he has taken down some nasty individuals indeed! We are all familiar with Myzax, yes?”

Lance’s mouth drops open. “He took down  _ Myzax?  _ The Galran Champion? I knew the Garrison offed him, but I thought it was a special ops team, not —  _ one guy _ with a fancy arm!”

Allura leans back in her chair. “Myzax killed many,” she muses. “He was no typical Galra...he was cybernetically enhanced, nearly to a degree that took away any sense of morality and reason. He was like an oversized, terribly deadly guard dog; at least that was what my father called him.”

“A robeast,” Pidge whispers, drawing her knees up to her chest. “An organic being turned fully into a killing machine. I thought those existed in theory only...”

“Myzax was still organic,” Allura says. “We have tissue samples. But…there were certain replacements. Muscles, bones, some organs...”

“This is all extremely confidential, you understand,” Coran interjects, eyes wide.

“Noted,” Pidge says, eyes narrowing. “You know...I wonder if that arm isn’t the only replacement in Shirogane’s body. He moved in complete silence, and way too fast. It was...inhuman.”

“A human robeast,” Allura whispers. “Could that have been their goal?”

“Whose goal?” Lance demands. “The Galra?”

Veronica pauses. “Wait a second,” she says, striding across the room to the computers. “Shirogane’s relationship with the Garrison is more than just an excellent bounty hunter. He’s been with them for too long for that — since before the War. Iverson has definitely mentioned it.”

“So he was in the military,” Lance grumbles, “big surprise. Dude’s a ripped, egotistical dick; the shoe fits.”

“Hey, now,” Matt says, affronted.

“The navy’s cool,” Lance quickly adds.

“Cállate, Lance, I’m trying to focus,” Veronica mutters. “Pidge, if I got you into the Garrison servers, could you use me and Matt’s permissions to bypass the firewalls and access Shirogane’s private files?”

“I don’t think we want to try to test just how merciful this guy is,” Hunk points out. “And without Veronica in the Garrison comm servers to cover our butts…”

“I can keep my IP hidden,” Pidge says. “Veronica is the one who found it the first time, so she can help me hide it from the Garrison via sneaky backdoors. Right?”

“Right,” Veronica sighs. “But can you do it?”

“Sure, you’re higher up than Matt, so you should have more access,” Pidge says. “Who would have permissions to access those files?”

Matt frowns. “Not us. Wherever Shirogane came from, it’s a well kept secret.”

Pidge shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Once I’m past the major firewalls and into the main system, the last few should be easy to crack. Veronica?”

Veronica hesitates, then types in her ID and passcode. The computer pings, logging her in, and Pidge lets out a gleeful cackle before descending upon the keyboard like a bat out of Hell while Veronica gives her tips to stay hidden.

Allura waits with the others, but she’s distracted by the mouse on her shoulder. It’s been unable to get a visual on Keith for a couple days — the guest bedroom’s window shade is closed and she hasn’t been able to get its thermal view working. Coran is trying to fix it as fast as he can.

Allura mentioned her encounter with Krolia to Lance, who has likely told the others by now, but she hasn’t told them about the neural chip Krolia gave her. Krolia entrusted her with that information, for whatever reason, and it feels private; too personal to share with this room full of people. As soon as she gets the thermals working, she’ll contact Keith’s mother. 

“Matt,” she murmurs as everyone huddles closer to Pidge, “have you discovered anything more about the Arus Institute’s Goldilocks project?”

Matt shakes his head, lips pursed. “Sorry, Princess. All I know is that the Garrison may be opposed to the hoktril publicly, but privately...they see it as a tool. Not one they use, as far as I know, but I have a feeling it’s only a matter of time.”

Allura sighs; she feared as much. “Very well. Thank you, anyway.”

“I think I’m in,” Pidge says, scrolling through page after page and furrowing her brow. “Or as in as I’ll ever be, anyway. A lot of these files are redacted; nobody but Commander Iverson or Admiral Sanda herself could access it. Still, there’s some here…this is gonna take awhile.”

“No,” Veronica says, her face grim. “Type in keyword: prisoner.”

Everyone looks at her. “Huh?” Lance says.

“Do it.”

Pidge types, and sucks in a breath as result after result comes up. “Shit,” Lance whispers, “the guy was a prisoner of war.”

“Of the Galra,” Hunk says, and gulps. “For  _ two years.” _

“You don’t think…” Shay trails off, because they’re all thinking it.

Pidge stops scrolling. “Oh, god,” she breathes. “Oh,  _ god.” _

“What, what is it?” Allura asks, leaning in, her eyes widening as she reads the line Pidge has highlighted aloud.

The room falls silent.

“I take back what I said,” Lance whispers. “No point in killing the guy when the Galra already did something a thousand times worse.”

*

Krolia stares at the screen, disbelief and horror warring inside her.

_ This can’t be right, _ Princess Allura insists over the communicator,  _ the thermal readings are saying his body temperature is impossibly high! _

“Not impossible,” Krolia mutters, resting her chin in her hand. “Not for Galra.”

_ Then...has he fallen ill? Does he have a fever? _

Krolia looks helplessly at the small, glowing purple and red lump on the bed that is her son. “Of a sort,” Krolia says. “Do you have eyes on the bounty hunter?”

Allura pauses.  _ No,  _ she admits.  _ He’s been out of the apartment since I got the thermals back online. _

Krolia swears under her breath. She hasn’t told the other Blades about this, because she’s still debating breaking into that damn apartment to save her son, oath of secrecy or not. The Blades would never go for it, not if they risked revealing themselves to the rest of the Grid. And such an extraction mission would be too high profile. Krolia knows what Kolivan would say — she’s letting her emotions get in the way of the mission. He said as much to Keith time and time again.

But how can Krolia sit idly by after she’s already lost one of the people she loves more than anything, and is now in danger of losing the only other person she would die for in this world? The first time she lost Keith, she’d been blinded by rage and grief. She’d sent scouts into every corner of the Grid, searching for her son, her child who had been kidnapped by Empire forces for three terrible days. 

She remembers their reunion like it was yesterday — Thace carrying Keith’s small, bruised body into Thaldcyon, his eyes exhausted and wary, locking onto her with raw desperation and relief.

_ Mom,  _ he’d gasped, letting go of Thace to run to her as best he could on his injured legs,  _ Mom, is it true? Is he dead? _

She’d held him close, so close, and buried her face in his hair.  _ Yes, _ she whispered.  _ He’s gone, Keith. _

_ Mom, they hurt him,  _ Keith whispered back, his eyes wide with confusion and fear.  _ They kept — cutting him. He was telling them to stop, screaming, saying he wouldn’t tell them anything, but they wouldn’t stop. _

Krolia knew Heath had been tortured, but it was so much worse to hear it from her son’s lips.  _ Did they hurt you? _ she whispers. 

_ No, I was hiding,  _ Keith says.  _ Under the couch, the trapdoor, in the place you showed me. When they set the house on fire, I had to run. That’s when they found me. But he was dead by then, wasn’t he? It was too late. _

She knows that if Keith had not hidden, Empire would have tortured him instead, and Heath would have told them everything they wanted to know. He would never have let his son die for their cause, no matter how great that cause might be. 

Krolia doesn’t know what she would do. Staring at Keith’s purple, flickering form on the screen, she shivers.

Now, her only son is in heat in the home and prison of a strange man, and she feels that she has failed him for the worst and last time.

_ Wait,  _ Allura says,  _ the mice are telling me there’s a new thermal reading in the house. Is that — _

“A cat,” Krolia says, and cocks her head at the small, red-orange blob pawing at Keith’s door. “The bounty hunter’s?”

_ It has three legs,  _ Allura says, sounding a bit flustered.  _ Why in the world…? _

A third thermal blob walks into the frame, and both women inhale sharply. “Shirogane is home,” Krolia mutters, fighting to stop herself from digging her claws into her desk. “And approaching Keith’s room.”

_ Oh no, _ Allura whispers,  _ are Keith’s thermal readings so high because he’s... _

Wisely, the princess does not finish that sentence. 

The bounty hunter stops in front of Keith’s door, the cat blob weaving around his legs and lifting its head for him to scratch with his only visible hand, the left one. Whatever the prosthetic is made of, it doesn’t show up on thermals.

Krolia holds her breath as Shirogane nudges the cat aside and steps into the room, advancing upon Keith. Krolia bares her teeth, leaning closer, daring him to fucking  _ try  _ to touch her son. She makes up her mind right then and there. If he so much as brushes up against Keith the wrong way, she will scale the building tonight, slit that bounty hunter’s throat, and carry Keith off to safety. She’ll send her letter of resignation to Kolivan and sever all ties with the Blade even though she’s devoted her life to them thus far. She won’t lose someone else, not when this time, she actually has a chance to save him.

But to her surprise, Shirogane sets something down on the nightstand, a much warmer object that resembles a mug of...tea? Then he stands back, arms folded, and opens his mouth.

Keith stirs on the bed, lifting his head, the cooler orange points of his ears pricking to alertness. He sits up, and his stance is relaxed, not defensive. Curious.

_ I’ve got audio,  _ Allura whispers.

“...would have slept better if it weren’t for that cat meowing nonstop,” Keith grumbles. “Why d’you even have a cat, anyway?”

“She just gets lonely,” Shirogane says, and Krolia is utterly taken aback by the complete change in his tone of voice. Gone is the cool, collected man she met at Quantum Abyss and Penumbra. He sounds amused, almost playful. “And that’s a long story. Would you believe me if I told you she chose me?”

“No,” Keith snorts. “Cats are smart.”

“Ouch,” Shirogane says. “I guess you’re right, it was more of a lucky coincidence. Stroke of fate; right place, right time.”

“Wish I had more of those right about now,” Keith sighs.

“At least you’re lucid,” Shiro says. “Maybe sushi really does work wonders.”

“Sushi doesn’t cure heat, genius,” Keith retorts. 

“But it helps,” Shiro says. “Here, I brought more for lunch.”

“I knew you smelled fishy.”

“Oh, that was bad.”

“I know. Shit, is that unagi? Fuck, yes.”

Krolia is floored. What is going  _ on, _ here? These two are not acting like captor and captive. This is friendly banter, not an argument. And Shirogane bought sushi for him. With eel, which is expensive, to say the least. It just gets more bewildering from there.

“You’re still set on a cheeseburger and milkshake for dinner?” Shirogane asks.

“Why, you gonna bail on me?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Just wanted to ask if you like fries.”

Keith stretches and Krolia swears she can see his smile. “Is that even a question? Yes. The greasier, the better.”

“Gross.”

“What, you can handle blood and guts but a little grease turns you off?”

“Point taken.”

“Hmph. What kind of food do you even like? Filet mignon?”

Shiro chuckles. “I’ve always been a fan of noodles.”

“Noodles. Is that an innuendo?”

Keith’s voice has taken on a dreamy, distracted quality, and his heat signature spikes. Krolia tenses again, but Shirogane steps away, shaking his head. “And that’s my cue to leave. The new toys are in a bag by the door.”

“Ugh,” Keith groans, flailing an arm. “Great. Did you throw in some extra batteries?”

“Of course,” Shiro says over his shoulder, and leaves the room.

“Turn it off,” Krolia orders, and the feed switches off at once.

_ What was that? _ Allura whispers.

“My son is not in immediate danger,” Krolia says. “Continue your surveillance when he is not, ah, preoccupied, please. Thank you for the update.” And she disconnects.

As soon as the line is closed, Krolia puts her head in her hands and screams very quietly. She is supposed to meet Shirogane at Penumbra again, and though she brought Kolivan with her the last time, she thinks Thace might be a better choice. If, upon meeting with the bounty hunter in person, she realizes she was mistaken about Keith’s safety, Thace will not hesitate to help her destroy Shirogane. Scents don’t lie.

Mind made up, she rises from her desk, quelling her quiet rage, and hopes she’s making the right choice.

*

Penumbra is dark, and Shirogane stands out like a beacon, as always. 

Beside her, Thace sets down his drink with a frown. “You trust this man? He’s got Garrison painted all over him.”

“I don’t trust any men,” Krolia retorts, crunching an ice cube between her teeth. “But he’s got intel on Keith. Among other things.”

Thace’s eyebrows go up, but he says nothing as Shirogane approaches their table with a close-lipped smile. Krolia inhales as he steps closer, and as she suspected, the sticky-sweet scent of Galra heat wraps around her like a spiderweb. She recognizes it as Keith’s, having smelled it plenty of times before, but pauses — the heat scent is not bitter with fear or anger or pain. It’s sweet all the way through, like honey.

So what she saw and heard on the thermals was no act. He is truly caring for her son. But why? What is his game, if not entirely self-defeating?

“Krolia?” Shirogane asks, hand lowering, looking uncertain. Thace is eyeing her, too, the fur around his neck bristling. She wonders if he’s smelled it, too, though it is unlikely he would recognize it as Keith.

“Sit,” Krolia says. “We have much to discuss. Give me the files I requested.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Shirogane murmurs, sitting with a grace that unsettles her and pulling a physical envelope from his briefcase. “It’s all in here. Everything the Garrison knows about Keith Kogane, as far back as I could find.”

She studies the envelope, then Shirogane. She thinks he’s telling the truth, which again makes no sense. Krolia tucks the envelope away into her jacket, which clearly confuses the human.

“You told me once that you were part of the Garrison,” Krolia says. “Tell me more about that.”

His brow furrows. “I’ve already given you the information you requested,” he says.

“Have you?” Krolia leans closer. “Then would you care to tell me why you reek of a Galra in heat,  _ Shirogane?” _

His eyes widen. He didn’t know she knew his name, either. “That’s not —” he stammers, and flushes. “It’s not like that,” he mutters, eyes downcast. Interesting reaction.

“A rather  _ satisfied _ Galra,” Krolia adds, entertained by the way that makes him twitch, eyes widening and blush darkening further. “Something you’d like to share?”

Shirogane exhales, jaw tight, and she takes pity. “Jameson, right? Bartender, a Jameson over here!”

The bartender, a clever girl with pretty dreadlocks, nods, salutes, and skips off to pour the drink. 

Shirogane eyes her warily. “Alright,” he says. “But it’s not a very happy story.”

“The one about the Galra or the Garrison?” 

Shirogane twitches again. “The Galra isn’t – he’s just. A friend. I was just helping a friend. Not like – you know what I mean.”

_ A friend.  _ Krolia’s eyes narrow. “Fine. Go on, tell me about the Garrison.”

“I was in the Air Force, during the War,” Shirogane says. “My entire squadron went down during Operation Monsoon. As far as I know, I was the only survivor. Empire forces kept me as a POW for two years. When the War ended I was released after negotiation —”

Krolia holds up a hand. “Stop. Empire forces never simply  _ kept _ POWs.”

Shirogane’s expression darkens. “How do you think I lost my arm?” The bartender slaps the whiskey down in front of him and he takes a measured sip.

“Experiments, or the gladiatorial pits?” Thace ventures to ask.

Shirogane glances at him. “Both,” he says. “Experiments for the gladiatorial pits.”

“I see.” Krolia doesn’t, but thinks she’s beginning to.

He sighs. “It was a long time ago.”

“The War only ended a decade ago,” Thace says.

“The Garrison assisted greatly with my speedy rehabilitation and recovery,” Shirogane explains. “Without them, I’m not sure where I would be now.”

“So you’re betraying them now,” Krolia says, nodding to the hidden file. “Doesn’t add up.”

“They were good, once,” Shirogane says. “Now, I’m not so certain. They control too much of this city, and too many of its people. And control is a dangerous thing.”

Krolia hums thoughtfully. “Speaking from experience, I wonder?”

Shirogane pauses. “What?”

“I wonder,” she murmurs, “were you made to do worse things under the Empire, or the Garrison?”

Shirogane’s eyes flash. “They aren't even comparable, ma’am.”

Krolia relents. His jaw is working, and she worries his grip around the glass might shatter it. “If you say so.” She waves a hand. “That’s all, then. Unless you had a question for me.”

Shirogane hesitates, then nods. “I do,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to ask for a while now —I’m looking for a particular Galra...lavender skin, smaller pointed ears, a short white Mohawk, a pale face with bushy eyebrows, yellow eyes, and a striped skull. He may be a doctor, or a scientist of some kind.”

Krolia and Thace exchange looks. He’s just described Ulaz to the T. “Why do you seek this Galra?” Krolia asks.

“He saved my life,” Shirogane says. “I would like to thank him, and wish to know why. That is all.”

“We know this Galra,” Thace says before Krolia can stop him. “Perhaps we could arrange —”

“If we were to arrange a meeting, it would have to be at a more private location,” Krolia cuts in, a plan forming in her head. It may be a foolish one, but she has little else to go on. “I will bring you there personally in two nights’ time, if you would like.”

Shirogane pauses, but she can see he is genuinely conflicted. He must at least suspect a trap, yet, he’s considering it. So he truly wants to meet Ulaz. But  _ why?  _

“You have no shortage of secrecy, do you?” Shirogane sighs, but nods. “Friday night, then.”

“I will meet you here at the bar, at midnight,” Krolia says. 

Shirogane frowns, but nods again. “Thank you. I hope you find the file useful.”

“It’s more about making certain nobody else finds it useful,” Krolia says, and something flickers in his eyes – respect, or even agreement; there’s no telling which.

“May it lead you to your son,” Shirogane says, downing the rest of his drink, and rising to leave. For a moment, Krolia considers not letting him. In the second that he turns away, it would be a simple thing to draw her concealed pistol and press the muzzle into the small of his back, cocked and ready to paralyze him with a single shot. But she thinks of her son, huddled over a mug of tea and a box of sushi, and hesitates. 

Shirogane leaves, and she exhales, the sound of regret lost under the heavy bass drop as the speakers blare and the club teams with dancing and laughter.

Thace leans over. “What happened to trusting no men?” he murmurs. “Because, if I’m not mistaken, you just invited Shirogane to our headquarters. Which is, of course, absolutely forbidden.”

“He won’t be leaving Thaldcyon,” Krolia murmurs back, watching him go with narrowed eyes. “I think it’s high time we had an entirely  _ honest _ chat with Shirogane. That man has too many secrets, and I don’t like it. If he’s telling the truth about Ulaz…”

“Then Ulaz might know something,” Thace finishes. “Only one way to find out.”

*

Ulaz is the best ripper in the outer Sectors, which of course means his work is somewhat illegal. All the best things are. 

People want cyberware installed for a good price and a guaranteed good job done, they go to him. Some have lower prices, but they’ve gained reputations for shoddy workmanship and unpleasant side effects over the years. Only Ulaz has perfected the balance of affordable and quality cyberware, much of which is unavailable on the open market, and continuous customer satisfaction. Trust is required to let someone surgically implant technology into your very flesh and bone, and Ulaz is deeply trusted by the outer Grid. 

Yet, his most important job is the one almost no one knows about. As a senior member of the Blade of Marmora, he keeps his eyes and ears open, seeing and listening, at all times. He is a gatherer of whispers, a collector of rumors and superstitions and secrets. Many of the other Blades are more active in the field, but Ulaz’s fieldwork days have been over for a decade. Some things cannot be unseen, nor forgotten. Yet he tries to leave the past in the past nonetheless, throwing himself into his work with a passion and meticulousness that does not go unnoticed. 

Cyberware is a brilliant and wonderful invention, he thinks, but it also has the potential to create nightmares. Ulaz knows this all too well.

This is his first thought when Krolia and Thace corner him in the back of his shop at dawn and ask him about a man named Takashi Shirogane.

Ulaz freezes, and slowly sets down the drill he was tightening. Krolia’s eyes are full of fire; the last time he saw her like this was after Empire killed Heath and kidnapped Keith. “This man,” Krolia repeats, “he said you saved his life. Is it true? What does he speak of?”

Ulaz exhales, and inclines his head. “Come, let us sit,” he sighs. “This is a topic better discussed over tea, I think.”

Krolia is not in the mood for tea, and Thace is pleading for Ulaz to tell her what she wants to hear with his eyes, but they follow him to the scratched and creaking table in the small kitchen and sit with clear impatience while Ulaz puts a kettle on the stove and pinches tea leaves methodically into the infuser. The tea is more for him than for his guests. He does not wish to speak of Takashi Shirogane, but Krolia will not take no for an answer, and he supposes she deserves an answer, after all these years.

Once the tea has brewed, Ulaz pours each of them a cup, and settles in the third chair, crossing his legs and folding his hands around the warm porcelain. “Takashi Shirogane was a POW in the camp I infiltrated during the War,” Ulaz begins. “The camp was run by Haggar, Zarkon’s wife, and a woman whose desire for knowledge and advancement blinded her to morality or compassion. She would do anything to accomplish her goals, and to aid Zarkon in the War and in furthering the Galran regime. And she did...terrible things.”

He takes a sip of tea, steeling himself. Krolia watches him intently. Thace slides his hand across the table, and Ulaz pauses before reaching out, clasping his hand gratefully, and continuing. “Takashi Shirogane was captured after most of his squad was killed in Operation Monsoon. Official records state that he was the sole survivor, and in the end he was, but during Haggar’s experiments, three of his squad members were still alive. They died horrible deaths, and Shirogane was witness to all of them. He was young, and full of anger and fear and horror. I remember his horror, most. He wept for them, well after most of Haggar’s experiments had become numb. He sought, so fervently, to _ feel,  _ even when all he could feel was pain. And I suppose that quality is why Haggar chose him for one of her most ambitious experiments.”

Krolia frowns, her set jaw softening. “You’ve never spoken of this to us,” she says.

“No,” Ulaz agrees. “I only ever reported my findings to Kolivan. It was a burden of knowledge I did not wish to inflict upon anyone else. But now...I think perhaps it is better than you know. The Galra pitted POWs against each other in gladiatorial rings, as you both know. Some of these prisoners were enhanced with intense cyberware, for example, Myzax, the first Champion. But there was a second Champion, a second version or update, if you will, and that was Takashi Shirogane.”

Thace’s eyes widen. “But Myzax was…”

“A robeast, yes, or at least a prototype for one,” Ulaz says. “So was Takashi Shirogane. Haggar wanted a human robeast, a Trojan horse to act as a spy for the Empire. But Shirogane was stubborn; he would not break. She implanted synthetic organs, synthetic musculature and reinforced skeletal elements, and still he would not follow her orders and betray humanity. Haggar grew impatient, and so after six months she forced upon him a cruel device, one that would take away even the strongest of wills. A modified hoktril, one that, instead of eliminating the tendency for aggression, magnifies it to dangerous levels.”

Krolia and Thace stare at him, and Krolia sets down her cup slowly, the fire returning to her eyes.

“Takashi Shirogane was a non-cog for a year and a half,” Ulaz whispers, not meeting their gazes. “I regret every day that I could not save more lives in that wretched camp, but I did what I could to save his. Then, near the end of the War, Haggar forced Shirogane to fight the last of his surviving squad members. The poor boy was already half-mad from drugs and starvation, but she made Shirogane kill him for sport, and he could do nothing but obey. It was a bloodbath.”

Krolia closes her eyes, pained. “Ulaz,” Thace whispers, voice aching with sorrow. 

But he is determined to finish the awful tale. They did ask, after all. “After that, I decided I must do what I could to save him before it was too late. I took Shirogane from his cell, heavily sedated, for he was little more than a murderous beast with that hoktril in his head, and performed an emergency surgery. I feared his mind might never be the same, and in the end, I don’t think it was. The man who emerged from the procedure was so much colder than the one I remembered; the man who had cried for his dead friends and resisted every one of Haggar’s attempts to control him. Perhaps the hoktril destroyed certain neural connections, or rendered the emotional centers of his brain obsolete. I don’t know. Whatever the case, he sat upright on the operating table, thanked me politely, left the room, and proceeded to kill everyone who got in his way as he left the camp. I think he returned to the Garrison. That is all I know.” 

There is a long silence. Ulaz drinks his tea.

Then Krolia clears her throat and says, “This man, Shirogane...Ulaz, he’s kidnapped Keith.”

Ulaz almost drops his tea. Thace  _ does _ drop his tea.  _ “What?!”  _ they exclaim in unison. Ulaz’s heart pounds. Memories of disemboweled corpses and pleading prisoners rear their ugly heads, and he tamps them down, trying desperately not to imagine Keith numbering among them. 

“I have kept this to myself for long enough, I think,” Krolia says, standing, her arms folded and claws digging into her own skin. “I agreed to let Shirogane meet with you, in Thaldcyon, this Friday night. We will all get answers, then, and if all goes well, we will get Keith back, too. Before it’s too late.”

*

Keith still can’t quite believe Shiro let him leave his room, but he isn’t complaining. It’s just too bad everything hurts too much for him to move, let alone leap off the couch, onto his feet, sprint across the room, and stab Shiro with one of the several kitchen knives gleaming tauntingly in their block on the counter. 

The thought of stabbing Shiro does not hold the same appeal it did a week ago. Keith frowns, and burrows deeper into his large pile of blankets and pillows, watching Shiro’s back as he flips the burger patty and hums something under his breath. His broad shoulders flex and arch with the movement, and Keith sweats uncomfortably, averting his gaze to the lithe black creature approaching him on three cautious paws. 

Keith tilts his head, ears flicking up as he blinks down at her. He manages to lift a hand out of the blankets, and crooks his fingers at the cat. “Here, kitty kitty,” he murmurs, and she blinks back, approaching with a little less caution.

Shiro whirls around, eyes wide, and drops his spatula to the countertop with a clatter. “Pandora! You were supposed to stay in my room, get away – !”

His expression is inexplicably terrified, and Keith pauses, his fingertips inches from Pandora’s speckled black and pink nose. She startles away at the outburst, body held low to the ground and tail swishing anxiously, looking between the two of them with dilated pupils. 

“Wait,” Keith says, his ears flicking back in dismay, “d’you seriously think I would  _ hurt your cat  _ to get back at you?”

Shiro falters, opening his mouth and closing it. “I – I don’t know, would you?”

Keith scowls at him. “Fuck you. I just wanted to pet her. You’re burning my burger.”

Shiro frowns. “I’m sorry, I just –”

“Thought I would claw up a damn cat? Jesus.” Keith shakes his head. “For the hundredth time – hell’s wrong with you?”

Pandora slinks back to Keith hesitantly, sniffing at his clawed fingertips. Shiro watches her, returning to the burger with divided attention, and sighs. “I suppose I expect the worst in people. Thank you for not hurting my cat.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Keith mumbles, and then coos happily and not entirely on purpose when Pandora butts her head against his palm, enthusiastically accepting his petting.  _ “Oh. _ She’s so soft.”

Shiro turns away, but not fast enough to hide the ghost of a smile. “She is, isn’t she? You’re lucky, she normally hates strangers.”

“Well,” Keith says dryly, “we’re not exactly strangers, are we? I’ve been in this apartment for almost, what, two weeks?”

“Just about,” Shiro says, and turns off the stove as he loads the cheeseburger onto a bun and plate with fries, and starts piling on the requested condiments. 

Keith frowns, but doesn’t ask why Shiro’s kept him for two weeks when he should have given him up to the Garrison days ago. He’s not even sure Shiro himself knows.

Instead he says, “I had a dog.”

Shiro glances up. “Oh?”

“Not a real dog,” Keith mutters, “a holo-dog. He was a good boy, though. His name was Kosmo. Sometimes I wonder if he misses me. Hmph. That’s silly.” He stops petting Pandora and huddles in the blankets, shivering. “I was gonna buy an emanator for him,” he adds. “I know all that AI companion stuff is bullshit, all just a marketing scam, but...I miss Kosmo. Wish he was real. I guess.” Keith turns his face into the fleece. 

“It’s not a scam if it meant something to you,” Shiro says after a beat, rummaging through the fridge and emerging with what looks like a blender full of chocolate milkshake. Keith’s stomach rumbles hopefully. 

“Nah,” he sighs, “still a scam, especially if you ain’t a rich bastard in the Equinox Apartments who can afford real pets.”

Pandora meows in loud complaint and leaps onto Keith and his blanket pile. Shiro eyes them, his brow furrowing, and Keith makes another pleased, surprised sound when she snuggles up in his lap, kneading his thigh through the fabric, and begins to purr as he pets her with a careful hand.

“Point taken,” Shiro says. “Though I didn’t buy Pandora. I found her out in the Zones as a kitten.”

“And you didn’t kill her on sight?” Keith retorts, immediately regretting it when Shiro winces, his jaw tightening and eyes downcast. “Sorry. Guess animals are exempt from violence in your book, too?”

“Yes,” Shiro says, curt and cool, and pours the milkshake into a glass. He grabs a jar from the fridge and places a single maraschino cherry on top. 

“No real ones this time?”

Shiro says nothing, and brings the full plate and milkshake around the kitchen island, and into the living room where Keith is curled on the couch. His face is closed off again, so Keith needles further, heat turning his anger hotter and splitting his control to a single thread.

“I’m sorry, did I offend you?” Keith snaps, baring his teeth. Shiro stops. “You’re too good to kill a kitten but not to make jokes about punching my mother and Pidge? I didn’t forget about that. So, did you? Did you get a real kick out of beating up a twenty year old girl —”

“I didn’t hurt her.” Shiro sets the plate and milkshake down on the coffee table and sits in the armchair opposite the couch. “Your friend Pidge is safe, albeit frightened.”

Keith glowers at him, and Pandora kneads his leg harder, demanding more pets. “What. Did. You. Do?”

“I tracked her IP address with the intent of killing her,” Shiro says, and Keith’s eyes widen. “But upon actually having her in my grasp, I found myself unable to do so.”

“So you just let her go?” Keith whispers.

“Yes,” Shiro says. “I left. She was unharmed.”

“Why?” Keith demands.

Shiro shrugs. “She’s talented. I’m a fan of her work.”

“She broke into the Eva mainframe and almost let me escape.”

“I wouldn’t call it an ‘almost’ escape. A valiant attempt, sure. Either way, very few would be able to do such a thing. It seemed a waste to kill her. That’s all.”

Keith frowns, still wary. “And my mother? Met with her much, lately?”

“Yes, actually,” Shiro says. “She bought me a drink last night.”

Keith splutters at him. Pandora glares and rubs her face on the blankets when Keith fails to continue petting her. “Why the hell would she do a thing like that?” he exclaims.

“I gave her a copy of the Garrison’s file on you,” Shiro says calmly, like he’s reporting the weather.

Keith gapes. “Why the hell would  _ you _ do a thing like that?!”

“Because she asked me to,” Shiro says.

“I don’t understand you,” Keith says. 

“Join the club,” Shiro replies easily, and slides the plate and milkshake towards him. “But eat first.”

Keith sniffs, and just barely stops himself from moaning aloud at how good it smells. He reaches out, muscles protesting as he leans forward to pick up the burger, then hisses in pain, huddling back down in defeat. 

“Need some help?” Shiro asks, and lifts the plate up to him, until he can snatch the burger off of it and sink his teeth into it gratefully. Keith does moan when he tastes it, and Pandora gives him a disgruntled look, only to forget her disgust altogether when a few chunks of beef crumble away onto the floor as Keith messily devours the burger. Pandora darts down and gobbles them up like she’s been starved for a year. Keith can relate.

Shiro sighs. “I’ll take that as a sign that you like it, then?”

“Ungnh-huh,” Keith says around the burger.

“Please just eat, don’t talk,” Shiro says, wrinkling his nose. 

Keith gulps down several inhuman mouthfuls of burger and growls, “I’ll do what I want. This is fucking delicious.”

Shiro blinks. “Oh. Really?”

Keith nods, setting down the burger on the now in-reach plate and setting upon the fries greedily. “First you save a kitten, then you don’t kill my friend, then you give my mom the Garrison’s file on me, then you make me damn good food — there may be hope for you yet, Shirogane.”

“Don’t forget I’m still holding you captive,” Shiro says.

Keith’s shoulders slump and he chokes down a last mouthful of fries. “Right,” he says. “There is that.”

“Try the milkshake,” Shiro suggests, leaning back in his chair. “You need to stay hydrated.”

“Okay, Mom,” Keith grumbles, summoning up all of his remaining strength to pick up the milkshake glass. Pandora hops back up and tries to stick her face in it. Keith hisses at her, and both Pandora and Shiro stare at him in shock. Keith ignores them, and sucks on the straw, eyes fluttering shut at the taste of chocolate, milk, and sugar. 

He doesn’t moan, but the sound he makes is not much of an improvement. Shiro’s face is pink when Keith peers at him over the foggy rim of the glass and licks his lips. “‘S good,” he says, and pops the cherry into his mouth. 

Shiro says something that resembles choking more than an actual word. Pandora decides her quest to steal his milkshake is not worth getting hissed at while trying to keep her balance on his increasingly squirmy legs, and makes a big show of jumping off the couch and stalking out of the room.

Keith is burning up again, and the milkshake is starting to taste too sweet, but he can’t seem to stop drinking it, and twin lines of chocolate run down from each corner of his mouth as he sets the empty glass down and sprawls against the cushions, his belly full and head fuzzy with lust and brain freeze. 

The more he thinks about Shiro, the less it all makes sense. How can someone be both cold and kind? How can Shiro treat him so well but take away his freedom in the same breath? How can the same hand that scarred him prepare food and nests so tenderly?

Keith doesn’t know, but he does know the one thing that has remained constant throughout this entire mess – Shiro is beautiful, and Keith wants him, badly. 

Shiro stands abruptly, his face stricken. Did Keith say that aloud? 

“Yes,” Shiro says, holding himself stiff and uncertain, “you did.”

“Well,” Keith mumbles, his hand slipping back under the blankets and palming lazily between his parted legs, “it’s true. Is it sad this is one of the best heats I’ve ever had? Never get burgers and milkshakes and baths and blankets and sex toys –”

“You’re not in your right mind,” Shiro says. He approaches with marked wariness, and pointedly does not look at where the blankets shift as Keith sinks two fingers into himself and shudders, head arching back over the armrest, mouth falling open.

“Please,” Keith groans, not even knowing what he’s begging for beyond  _ touch;  _ he just wants to be touched, to feel someone else’s hands on his skin, to kiss someone with all the desperation pent-up in his heaving chest and roiling belly.

Shiro shakes his head, but steps closer, and leans down. “You should get back to your room –”

Having him so close, Keith reacts instinctively, surging up and trying to drag Shiro on top of him. Shiro’s eyes fly wide when Keith’s hand falls upon the back of his neck, and the next moment Keith is tumbling off of the couch, blankets half-forgotten as he hits the floor hard, Shiro braced over him, pinning Keith’s wrists to the carpet and staring down at him with wild, panicked eyes.

Trapped beneath him, Keith squirms, then writhes, his heart pounding and legs forced apart by Shiro’s thigh braced between them, the remaining blankets barely covering his vulnerable skin. Shiro’s sweatpants do nothing to hide his arousal, and Keith can smell it besides, heavy and insistent in the air; Keith’s body reacts to it even as he struggles futilely. 

_ “No,” _ Keith gasps, turning his face away, cheek rubbed red against the carpet, “no, this isn’t what I meant,  _ stop,  _ not this, not like this –”

Shiro recoils, still panicked, maybe even more so than before. “Wait – I wasn’t – I didn’t mean to –”

Keith pants, adrenaline and stress flooding his veins as his hazy mind does the math – Galra are strong; but Shiro is stronger. Shiro has hurt him before; he will do it again, especially now that he knows Keith is still attracted to him. Shiro has Keith at his mercy; no one will save him. It will hurt more if he struggles; maybe if he just lets it happen it will be over quickly. So Keith goes limp, eyes glassy and breath shallow, and waits tensely.

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, and releases his wrists, stumbling to his feet. Shiro’s lower lip is trembling. “Stop,” Shiro whispers, pleading now. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Keith closes his eyes. Shiro swears, softly. “Please,” Keith says again, curling into a defensive ball, ears flicking nervously, tracking every sound, every rustle of movement, every ragged breath. 

“Don’t,” Shiro says. “Don’t beg. Don’t do that.” Then, quieter, “This was easier when you were fighting me.”

Keith doesn’t  _ understand.  _ Devoid of words, he whimpers.

A blanket drapes over him, and Shiro lifts him up, into his arms, and carries him through the quiet apartment, back to the guest room, back to his cell.  _ You should have gotten out while you still could, _ a tiny voice in the back of Keith’s head whispers.  _ You should have stabbed him in the kitchen. It’s what he would have done.  _

But Shiro is so gentle when he lays Keith down upon the bed, and so careful to keep his distance, and that just makes Keith want him more.

“If I fight you, will you kiss me?” Keith whispers as Shiro turns to go, and witnesses a tremor go through the man’s body, like an electric shock. 

“No,” Shiro whispers back. “You don’t want that. Not really.”

He leaves, and Keith watches with glowing, golden eyes, his heart hollow and aching. 

*

Shiro walks through the halls of the Garrison and thinks of all the things he has done wrong. 

Once, he thought that he had committed so many wrongs, he might as well just continue down that path. It felt like an even more grievous wrong to set aside his past and pretend to be good and blameless. Working for the Garrison, his wrongs were never labeled as such. Here, they claim Shiro is saving people by catching and killing the bad ones. He’s sure they whisper behind closed doors that one day, Shiro himself might have to be caught and killed, but for now they’ve found a use for him. 

“Captain.”

Shiro pauses, turning to Commander Iverson, who always addresses him by his rank even now that it might as well be null and void. “Commander,” he says, and inclines his head. “I was told that Admiral Sanda wishes to speak with me.”

“Yes,” Iverson says, and looks him over. “How have you been, Captain? No more issues with the Eva systems?”

“None,” Shiro says. He has gotten very good at lying, and even better at lying without guilt. Or so he thought. He’s guiltier than he would like to be, these days. “The hunt is going well. I’m afraid that’s all I can disclose to you, at the moment.”

Iverson nods. “I understand. For the record, Shirogane, I’m...well, I’m glad you’re faring better than the others who took this case. Guess I should have known better than to fear you’d end up in a body bag.”

Shiro smiles thinly. “You know me. I’d probably rip my way right out of it.”

Iverson chuckles and shakes his head. “The Admiral is waiting for you in her office, I expect. She’s been in a good mood, lately. A little too good, if you ask me. Good luck.”

Shiro frowns to himself and continues down the hall. Sanda, in a good mood? An ill omen, indeed. He knocks on her door at the end of the hall, and the smooth metal slides open to allow him entry, closing as soon as he steps over the threshold. 

Sanda is standing at the far end of the office, hands clasped behind her back, looking over the Grid through the wraparound windows by the warm incandescence of sunset. “Hello, Mr. Shirogane,” she says, nodding to the chair in front of her desk. “Please, sit.”

“Good morning, Admiral,” Shiro says, and goes to sit, his curiosity unfortunately piqued. “Has there been an update in the case?”

“As a matter of fact,” Sanda says, turning until he can see her shadowed profile, “there has been. You recall we informed you recently that we would no longer need the intel Red stole, only Red himself?”

Shiro nods. “You told me you would explain further once you were cleared to do so. Is this the explanation?”

“Yes,” Sanda says, and turns to face him, sitting down in her chair and folding her arms on the desk before her. “I admit, I was a little hesitant to tell you the details, considering your, ah, history. But I believe you can handle it. You see, some time ago we began work on a project in collaboration with the Arus Institute. Our involvement was, of course, confidential. We must keep up appearances.”

“The Arus Institute, Admiral?” Shiro’s gut twists with cold dread.

“I know, I know – they have a reputation, and it is not unfounded. But though the Garrison disapproves of some of their work, we find value in other aspects of it. The project began in Arus under the name of Goldilocks. We developed it further under the name of Crimson, in honor of its first true subject – your operative Red.”

“Subject,” Shiro repeats, the word dry and bitter in his mouth.

Sanda nods. “I cannot explain the specifics. However, the result of these two projects is a remarkable device, dubbed Veritas. It is a modified hoktril which allows the subject speech, but removes any cognitive ability to lie or otherwise deceive. So you see, other methods of interrogation will not be necessary once Veritas is implanted into Red’s head.”

“Ah,” Shiro says. He feels very far away from his body, detached, floating, adrift. “Yes, Admiral. I see. This removes the need for a trial altogether, doesn’t it?”

“We were never going to have a trial,” Sanda says. “That intel is more important than pretending we still have a judiciary branch, believe me.”

Shiro wonders if it was always so hard to breathe. “Thank you for informing me, Admiral. As always, I will keep you posted.”

“Please do,” Sanda says. “You’re handling this news well. Some were worried you might be...sympathetic.”

Shiro stands. “If you read my file, I think you will find that sympathy is not what I am known for.”

“I’ve read it, and you are correct.” She smiles, and waves a hand. “You’ve clearly got other places to be. Have a good day, Mr. Shirogane. I’m eager to see progress. Soon.”

He nods, and walks out as fast as his leaden feet will carry him.

Shiro keeps walking until he reaches his hoverbike, parked in the Garrison garage. He leans against the cool concrete, pressing his left forearm to his eyes, and inhales a breath that stings his lungs. 

By force of habit, he covers the back of his head with his right hand, needing to be certain that the ugly white scar hidden by his hair is just flesh, no metal, no dull pulse of pain piercing through his brain stem and sending numbing pulses through his head, confining him to a small dark room in his mind; the only place where his thoughts are his own, where all he can do is pound his fists against the walls and scream until his voice runs out, all the while feeling his body move against his will, seeing the nightmares spill out across his vision, letting the blood dry on his arms up to the elbows as he slumps into the rusted prison bars.

_ If I fight you, will you kiss me? _

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut. He must end this before it ends him, though he knows full well he’s already set himself on a path towards his own destruction. 

But how can he, when ending this means delivering Keith to a fate far worse than death, a fate Shiro would not wish upon his worst enemies?

Shiro lifts his head, and looks out to the horizon, peeking through the silhouetted skyscrapers in shreds of fading flame. This job was never about the credits, anyway. It was about finding answers, and tonight, Shiro is closer to those answers than he’s ever been. Once he finds them...maybe then he will let his past catch up to him. He just wants closure. Hope, even. Shiro has not allowed himself to hope for so long that he’s afraid he’s forgotten how.

He’s seen hope, impossible and wonderful hope, in Keith. Keith is bitter and hardened by the Grid as they all are, but there’s still a spark in him. A bright glimmer of something more. 

After Veritas, Keith’s spark would be extinguished forever. This, Shiro knows in the pit of his being. Imprisonment might not steal it from him. Even torture doesn’t always do the trick. But the second Keith became a non-cog, all of his hope would vanish alongside his free will. 

And once your mind and body and perhaps even your very soul have been stolen from you, it is difficult to believe in such a thing as hope ever again. 

Shiro doesn’t believe in it. But he wants to. Oh, how he wants to believe hope is anything more than false promises and fever dreams.

That’s why he’s walking straight into the trap Krolia set for him tonight. 

*

Shirogane is quieter than usual, subdued, when Krolia meets him and brings him to Thaldcyon on the back of her hoverbike, blindfolded, holding onto the bike with his right hand rather than touching her. The heat smell lingers again, and she presses down harder on the gas, gritting her teeth as she recognizes the sour fear and hurt tangled up in it.

_ No, _ she thinks, desperately, _ I can’t be too late. Not again. Please, not again.  _ The one saving grace is the lack of blood-scent on him...but there are many ways to kill and maim bloodlessly. 

Thaldcyon is an old munitions factory, closed down when the War ended, left to crumble in disuse. The Blades made it their home, and no one was the wiser, thanks to their cloaking security and underground facilities. No outsider has ever stepped foot in the building and lived to tell the tale; she is determined that Shirogane will share their fate. 

Krolia parks the hoverbike at a distance and helps Shirogane off, keeping a tight grip on him as she leads him to the elevator, and from there to the third sublevel. She has no doubt he at least suspects a trap, yet he is utterly compliant, and it unnerves her. They have Blades watching every entrance tonight, readying for a complete lockdown. It would take a miracle for him to escape, though if all goes according to plan, he won’t even make it three feet before they neutralize him.

“Alright,” she murmurs once the elevator doors open, “I’m going to take off the blindfold. Don’t try anything.”

“Of course not,” Shirogane says, and holds still as she unties it. She braces herself for an attack as soon as the thick cloth falls free, but instead he blinks, letting his eyes adjust, and nods for her to lead on. 

Krolia frowns, and pulls her pistol from her thigh holster. He tracks the movement, and pauses as she nudges the small of his back with the muzzle. “Security protocol,” she says. “Don’t breach security, and I won’t shoot you. Deal?”

“Fair enough,” Shirogane agrees, and walks on, albeit slower than before. 

Krolia eyes the back of his neck, searching for the scar that must be there, but it’s hidden by his hair. It’s difficult to believe what Ulaz told her, but she has never known him to lie. Still...if this man was a non-cog for a year and a half, how is he speaking and walking on his own, much less fighting? She’s seen far too many Galran victims of the hoktril – prolonged use destroys neurons and synapses, shrinking the cerebral cortex and hippocampus, like manmade advanced stages of dementia.

Ulaz claimed the Galra used a modified hoktril, one that encouraged aggression instead of repressing it, but Krolia would expect such a device to cause even greater damage than the original. Especially if Shirogane was nonviolent to begin with. 

“This place is well fortified,” Shirogane notes. “Entry scanners for each room, solid concrete walls, and we’re below ground, aren’t we? Your security could rival the Garrison’s. As could your secrecy.”

“We have our reasons,” Krolia says. “Keep walking.”

“But you’re Galra, aren’t you?” Shirogane presses. “A Galran gang that works towards good, not chaos or supremacy. Who are you? And what are you working towards?”

Krolia furrows her brow. He’s been thinking about this far too much. “We’re not here to discuss gangs. Take a right.”

He does, and pauses as she scans them through a series of three doors, each one locking silently behind them, before they finally enter a narrow room, where Thace and Antok wait, hooded and silent, and Ulaz stands between them, blanching when he sees Shirogane.

“Champion,” Ulaz whispers, starting to take a step forward, and then deciding against it. “It really is you...you survived.”

Shirogane tilts his head. “Ten years I tried to find you, doctor,” he says. “And you were in the Grid all along.”

Ulaz folds his arms. “I cover my tracks,” he says. “You’ll forgive me if I am wary, Champion. We did not part on good terms.”

“Didn’t we?” Shirogane asks. “You saved my life by removing that hoktril. What I don’t understand is why. Why help, and why me? Why were you there in the first place? You’re not part of Empire. None of you are. And the Warlords have a flair for the dramatic; this is all too clandestine for their tastes. No smaller gang could afford to maintain and conceal headquarters like these.”

Ulaz is quiet, considering what to tell him. Krolia stares at the back of Shirogane’s head, breathing in the scent of her son’s terror and pain. 

“You’re right,” Ulaz finally says. “We aren’t Empire, and we aren’t Warlords, but we are Galra. I was in that camp attempting to gather intel on Haggar and her experiments, while also throwing as many wrenches into said experiments without causing undue harm or being discovered. I cannot say I was successful; the experiments were far worse than any of us expected. But you got out...though I do not know if that is a success or failure on my part.”

Shirogane’s eyes narrow. “What makes you say that?”

“You murdered three dozen Galran guards in that camp after I freed you of the hoktril’s control,” Ulaz says. Krolia’s grip on the gun tightens.  _ Three dozen?! _ “I prayed it was a temporary side effect, but now you are a Garrison bounty hunter, responsible for the deaths of dozens more Galra, human, and Altean alike.”

Shirogane’s jaw works. “The cloud of violence Haggar forced upon me was not easily escaped, doctor. I did what I could. It is difficult, however, when one realizes the only time they feel anything at all is when they are inflicting violence. Better if that violence is in the name of justice, don’t you think?”

“I see,” Ulaz whispers. “So you are emotionally numb. What you feel when you kill is but an adrenaline rush, Champion. It is not true feeling. Your brain likely reacts to the adrenaline like a drug, craving more and entering withdrawal when you do not meet its demands –”

“Do not speak of me like a failed test subject,” Shirogane snaps, starting forward with clenched fists. Krolia cocks the gun and he glares at her over his shoulder. “Go on. Shoot me. It won’t kill me, might not even slow me down. My mind may have failed, but my body sure hasn’t. I’ll break your neck before the bullet even passes through.”

Thace growls, reaching for his guns. “One bullet might not kill you, but two cryo bullets and a grenade might.”

Ulaz shakes his head slightly, gaze not leaving Shiro. “Don’t,” he warns. “He already knows we don’t intend to let him leave Thaldcyon. Right?”

Shirogane looks back to Thace. “After what you saw me do to that camp, I don’t know whether I’m impressed or dismayed that you’d willingly expose your friends to the same fate.”

Ulaz sighs. “It isn’t about willingness, Champion. It is loyalty and duty. We know you took one of our own, indeed, the most precious of our own. Keith Kogane, also known as operative Red.” Shirogane inhales sharply. Ulaz looks to Krolia.

“You reek of his heat,” Krolia growls, and Shirogane tenses, true fear glinting in his eyes as he glances hesitantly back at her. “He is scared and in pain and you are the cause of it. Mark my words, Shirogane; if you hurt him, I do not care how many bullets I have to fill you with before it gets the job done.”

“I took the contract for his bounty, yes,” Shirogane says, his face flushed and stance defensive. “But...the situation may have changed.”

_ If I’m not mistaken, Shirogane harbors some fondness for Keith. _

Krolia’s lips curl back from her teeth. “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “You put my son’s life in danger, and you must make amends for that. You speak of justice, yet you would have handed Keith over to the Garrison for  _ credits, _ though his only crime was keeping our secrets; secrets that the Garrison must never be allowed to possess.”

“Why not?” Shirogane whispers. “Just tell me why.”

“Why would we tell _ you  _ our best kept secret?” Krolia snarls. “No. You are done asking questions. I let you go the last time because I thought you might actually be caring for my son, but I was wrong to do so. If you care for him, it is only for the pleasure you wrought from his suffering.”

Shirogane pales. “What?! No! We don’t – I haven’t – I don’t  _ hurt  _ him, not like that!”

“You are a liar through and through,” Krolia hisses, “so you’ll forgive me if I don’t trust a single word you say.”

His lips press together in a thin, grim line. “So that’s really how it’s going to be? If you kill me here, then what? How will you get to Keith?”

Krolia draws her blade, the low  _ scchhnick _ of luxite against sheath rasping through the tense silence. “I’m familiar with Eva’s security protocol,” she says. “All we really need is your voice and fingerprints. Prints are easily enough attained from a corpse, and we’ve been recording your voice since you stepped foot in Thaldcyon. It can be replicated within hours.”

“A group of Galra won’t make it into the city center, much less Equinox,” Shirogane warns, but Krolia has never been swayed by warnings.

“I think you’ve underestimated us for long enough,” Krolia says, and fires her gun, coupled with a powerful downwards stroke of her blade. 

Shirogane’s blood arcs through the air as he darts away, the bullet grazing just under his hip and the blade sticking into a Kevlar vest beneath his jacket. Krolia yanks it free, leaping out of the way of Shirogane’s well-aimed punch. Why is he  _ punching _ when he could be blasting her with deadly energy? She bares her teeth and surges forward in a whirl of blade and teeth, and Thace fires both handguns while Antok reaches for his rifle. But Shirogane isn’t engaging with either of them; he’s running, firing his prosthetic at the locked door scanner and busting it open in a shower of sparks. The violet energy slices through solid metal and Thace swears loudly, activating his comms to alert the other Blades waiting outside. 

Krolia pursues him, reckless and furious, and her blade catches his right shoulder, tearing through more Kevlar. He whirls, but again, instead of incinerating her on the spot, slams her backwards with a shockwave of raw force. Krolia hits the concrete wall hard enough to break a human’s ribs; the impact only bruises hers, knocking the wind clean out of her chest. She rolls her shoulders, shakes her head, and starts forward again.

“You’re underground and surrounded,” Krolia pants, eyes slitted and blade held high in one hand, pistol in the other. “You’ll die trying to get out.”

“We’ll see about that,” Shirogane retorts, and sprints through the next blasted-open doorway as she fires again, and again, and again.

*

Shiro never came home. 

Keith paces the length of the bedroom, head held low and ears pricked, his sweatpants damp with sweat that plasters his hair to the back of his neck, drips down the hollow of his throat, and makes the lines of his tattoos shine vivid and dark against the mottling violet-tan pattern of his skin. 

“Eva,” Keith says for the third time in the past hour, “what time was Shiro expected home?”

_ Mr. Shirogane’s expected arrival time was 2 AM Friday morning. It is now 3 PM on Saturday.  _

Keith stops pacing, his stomach grumbling and body trembling with a mixture of exertion and apprehension. “Where are you,” he whispers, and lays down on the bed, staring out at the white imprint of the sun through the dark window shades. 

Maybe Shiro just decided he had other errands to run. Maybe he got a lead. Maybe he went to the Garrison and is making plans to turn Keith in right now. Maybe he’s dead.

Keith shivers. It’s strange to be alone for so long after he’d finally gotten used to having Shiro in his orbit. Even when Shiro isn’t directly interacting with him, he can hear him moving around the apartment, humming songs from before the War to himself, talking to Pandora, or going on a call with the Garrison or some other contacts. 

It was threatening, at first; a reminder that he was nearby and that Keith was going nowhere...but now it feels even worse that he’s gone. Shiro was a constant, and at least when Keith’s in heat, he could expect food and blankets and an unexpected sense of safety with Shiro. Without him, Keith is unbalanced, heat magnifying his worries. The toys lay forgotten at the end of the bed; they’re not doing anything to satisfy him when all he can think of is whether or not Shiro is okay, whether or not Shiro has abandoned him.

His mind snags on this last thought and Keith whines miserably. He doesn’t want to starve. He doesn’t want to go insane, either – he’s heard of that happening to Galra left in isolation during their heat. Maybe Shiro lied again. Maybe he does have to torture Keith to get the intel to get the bounty, and this is his way of doing it. Starving Keith of food and of company until he breaks...he’s already too close to breaking. 

Keith can hear Pandora outside, scratching at the door and meowing frantically. She must be hungry, too. Somehow, the idea of Pandora starving to death is more upsetting than the possibility of starving to death himself. Shiro wouldn’t do that to her. Shiro may love nothing else in this world, but Shiro loves that cat; Keith is sure. 

The thought calms him a little, but only a little, because if Shiro didn’t abandon him, then he must be in danger. Logically, Keith should  _ want  _ Shiro to be in danger. But his logic is drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears and the rippling ache through his empty stomach and sore abdomen. All he wants is to be held, to be embraced, to inhale the scent of something other than his own souring need and tangled fears. 

He forces himself to think of Acxa, only for his fear to tangle tighter as he understands she isn’t what he wants, not here, not this time; if he’s being honest, not since Keith met that beautiful stranger’s curious gaze from across the bar. Keith moans in despair, words failing him as he shreds the sheets in the frustration of a caged beast, gathering the first blanket Shiro gave him close and straining to catch a fading remnant of his scent in the thick fleece. 

He falls asleep like that, and awakes, disoriented and on edge, hours later, to a dark room, pattering rain, and a cat howling at the door. Keith rubs his eyes, sitting up and glancing about the room, about to yell something at Pandora, whose caterwauling must have woken him up...but stops. His ears prick, and he sniffs at the air, eyes widening as he hears the low creak of a door and the lower cadence of voices, many, too many. None are Shiro’s.

Pandora’s noises cease immediately. Keith sucks in a sharp breath. He smells  _ Galra.  _ Other Galra...something is very, very wrong. 

Eva is silent. Keith licks his lips,conflicted. Are they here to save him? Keith isn’t one to jump to good conclusions. He cocks his head, listening intently to the footsteps – there are at least four pairs of them, maybe more.  _ Click.  _ He swallows. They have guns. With his glowing eyes, he can see the subtle shift of shadows beyond the crack under the door. Growing shadows, coming closer, closer…

Keith makes an executive decision and slips soundlessly off the bed and beneath it, crouched against the floor, watching the door and letting his eyeglow fade, squinting as his vision adjusts. His ears flick, and he hears, _ Over here. Think this door’s locked. Wear on the knob. And – smell that? _

Keith’s lips peel back from his teeth. Heat scent is _ private,  _ and even if these strangers are here to help him, they’re still strangers.

But then he hears, _ Yeah, that’s Keith, alright.    _

Her voice is harder than he remembers. 

_ “Acxa,” _ he whispers, and shuffles back, further under the bed. It isn’t the Blade, then, it’s the Warlords. Empire is worse, but the bar is low, and the Warlords aren’t known for saving lives, not even Galran ones. Could they be saving him for Acxa’s sake? He doesn’t believe it. They want something from him, more likely. But would Acxa let them get it? Maybe his chances are better with the Warlords than in a bounty hunter’s inescapable apartment. 

The doorknob jiggles and he holds his breath. Someone knocks, and Acxa calls, “Keith? Keith, are you in there? It’s me. We’re going to get you out of here, okay?”

She sounds like she’s speaking to a child, not a lover. Her voice shakes.  _ Wrong, _ a little voice in the back of Keith’s head whispers,  _ something is wrong.  _

Keith hesitates, and the guest bedroom window explodes into a million sparkling shards of glass as Shiro’s arm smashes through it, shortly followed by Shiro himself. He lands in a crouch on the floor, putting him eyelevel with Keith’s bewildered face under the bed, and outside the door, the low Galran voices erupt into a chorus of curses and snarls before the door flies off its hinges and Acxa stands in the splintered doorway, a smoking shotgun in her hand, flanked by two full-blood Galra who tower over her, their golden eyes slitted and white fangs bared.

Shiro makes a grab for Keith, with the advantage since the Galra haven’t seen him under the bed yet, and Keith cries out, raking his claws down Shiro’s left arm before faltering in shock and horror – Shiro is badly wounded, covered in bullet holes and burn marks, clothes spattered with blood and grime. His expression is cold, and he yanks Keith to his chest, heaving himself upright as glass and raindrops fall from his shoulders and hair like snow. 

Then the still-hot barrel of a gun is shoved against the side of Keith’s head, singeing his hair, and Acxa stops, her violet lips parting. “Wait –” she starts, but Shiro’s already dragging Keith backwards, his grip bruising and the gun unmoving, and Keith can only stare at her helplessly, mouth opening to scream, to tell her to shoot, _ anything,  _ before Shiro throws him out the window.

Keith’s shout is lost in leather upholstery as he tumbles into the dark backseat of a spinner waiting just outside the shattered window, its lights off and the hum of its engine covered by the falling rain. He scrambles upright, judging the distance back to the window, but his hopes shatter with the last of the glass as Shiro leaps back down into the spinner beside him, silhouetted against the sky, his silver hair a harsh halo and his eyes as cold and gray as the rain soaking their skin, mixing with the blood dripping down Shiro’s body.

The spinner’s sunroof snaps shut, and it accelerates on autopilot. Shiro looks at him, a long, eerie look that feels almost like looking into a mirror, at a reflection, a shadow; a being that can only ever mimic the emotion presented to it. He reaches out, and Keith is frozen at his touch, white metal fingers framing his face, thumb stroking over the scar, the raindrops, the curve of his cheek. He doesn’t know if Shiro is going to kill him or kiss him. 

Or both.

“This has gone on for long enough,” Shiro whispers, and for a moment, the reflection breaks, and Keith sees something real in Shiro’s face, and what he sees is pain. 

Then Shiro pins him to the seats, handcuffs clamping down around Keith’s straining wrists, blindfold descending heavy and black over his vision, and leaves him there, climbing into the front seat while Keith writhes in a blind panic.  _ The Garrison, _ Keith thinks as the spinner makes a sharp right, descending at a rapidly increasing speed,  _ he’s finally turning me in. I’m still in heat. It doesn’t matter. It never really mattered. It was a game, wasn’t it? It was all just a game, and I’ve lost. _

“Shiro,” Keith gasps, his cheek pressed to the leather seat, his chest heaving, “please, don’t, don’t do this, I thought you said, you promised –”

“This will be easier if you shut up, Keith,” Shiro says.

Keith’s ragged sob sends the spinner into a steep ascent. “I don’t want to die,” he whispers, eyelashes sticky against the blindfold. “I know it’s just a job to you, Shiro, but it’s my life. You don’t even  _ need _ the fucking credits, are you really such a sadistic bastard that –”

The spinner banks hard to the left and Keith is thrown into the side door, grunting at the impact, dull pain shooting through him.  _ I’m going to die,  _ Keith thinks. He closes his eyes and curls up as much he can with his arms bound. 

“Fuck you,” Keith spits, hating that he’s crying, tears dampening the blindfold. “You didn’t have to drag it out. You could’ve just done it on the first day. Why didn’t you? Why now?”

“I got bored of you,” Shiro says. His voice is toneless; flat sheets of rain on polished metal. 

Keith laughs, choked and miserable. “Will you just take your creds and leave, then?” he whispers. The rain pounds down harder, louder; white noise like static at full volume. 

“Did you expect me to stay and watch?”

“You’re a coward,” Keith tells him. “A lonely, bitter coward who makes himself feel less guilty by punishing others when the Garrison tells him to.”

“Had this speech prepared for a while, have you?” Shiro snorts. 

“You know I’m right,” Keith says. “And when you have your fifty million creds, that’s all you’re ever gonna have, Shiro. Money, and death. You almost had me convinced with Pandora, but you left her for dead in that apartment with the Warlords –”

The speeding spinner lands hard, and Keith jolts, breathing shallowly, flinching when the door swings open and the wind blasts cold rain across his face and bare torso. “I told you to shut up,” Shiro says, grabbing Keith firmly by the back of his neck and hauling him up and out of the spinner. Keith shivers violently, the rain freezing on his chest and back, and huddles over, hair hanging into his face, stumbling forward as Shiro guides him none too gently. 

The ground beneath Keith’s bare feet is rough, cracked asphalt, and he yelps when his heel catches on something sharp – glass, or a nail, or a torn beer can – and Shiro mutters something under his breath before lifting Keith up until he hangs over Shiro’s shoulder, arms twisted behind his back, the prosthetic arm braced across the backs of his thighs. It’s a position meant to humiliate, Keith thinks. He also thinks his foot is bleeding.

He also thinks they should be inside by now. 

Then something beeps, and Shiro steps forward, and the rain stops. The air is stuffy and metallic. They’re moving...down? An elevator? Keith’s heart pounds. They must not be in the main Garrison complex. Maybe they have another destination in mind for him – an underground supermax, or a laboratory. His suspicions grow exponentially when the overwhelming scents of Galra and blood hit his senses like a brick wall as the elevator stops and the doors slide open.

Keith bites back a whimper. What _ is _ this place?

Then he starts to hear the whispers. Low, gravelly Galran voices; some he swears he recognizes, but that can’t be right, he must be hallucinating, maybe he really did lose his mind.

_ The Champion is back? _ they whisper.  _ He should be dead. We filled him with bullets. He spent hours fighting his way out. How did he return to Equinox? On foot?! _

_ Look, _ they whisper. _ Is that…? _

Keith shifts and squirms, agitated and confused. Shiro’s hand tightens. Doors hiss open, and then Keith is sure he’s lost it, because he recognizes every scent in the room instantly.

And every voice.

“Keith,” his mother whispers, her voice shaking, escalating.  _ “KEITH!” _

“Yes,” Shiro says, and sets Keith down on cold tile. The handcuffs fall to the ground, deactivated, and the blindfold is untied, and Keith blinks his bleary eyes until his mother’s face comes into focus, then Kolivan, then Thace, then Ulaz.

“Mom?” Keith croaks, and slumps forward into her arms in numb relief when she falls to her knees and embraces him, a sob caught in both their throats.

It’s impossible, but Shiro brought him  _ home.  _


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> college is kicking my ASS but this story brings me simple joy so i hope it can maybe do the same for you guys :) 
> 
> i've been super excited about the dynamics ~shift~ in this fic for awhile and it's finally happening...the hunter becomes the hunted, as lance would say lmao enjoy guys. you may also notice the chapter count went UP. this is gonna be another long one....

Krolia's arms wrap around Keith with bruising, frantic familiarity, and he slowly returns the hug, leaning his head into her shoulder, still hardly believing he didn’t die when Shiro threw him out the window, that this isn’t some elaborate, vivid near-death experience.

Keith is jolted out of his impossible reunion by Kolivan’s growling voice. “So the Champion returned for us to put him down properly. Good.”

“Wait,” Ulaz interjects, “this makes no sense. Your bounty with the Garrison is still active –”

“Irrelevant,” Shiro says, voice toneless. “I do not work for the Garrison any more.”

“Then who do you work for?” Thace demands.

“Does it matter?” Shiro sighs. “You want me dead.”

“You should be dead already,” Kolivan says. “Whatever the Garrison did to you, you are no longer human. No human could sustain such wounds, nor eliminate twenty-six operatives singlehandedly.”

Keith lifts his head, and Krolia cups his face, her palm resting over the scar Shiro gave him. 

“Twenty-six?” Keith whispers.

“None are dead.” Shiro stands still and stiff. 

_ He’s bleeding,  _ Keith thinks, watching red continue to bloom through Shiro’s clothing.  _ Too much. Too much blood. Anyone else would be unconscious. _

Krolia opens her mouth to protest, then closes it with a frown when Thace says, “He’s correct. The worst injury an operative sustained in his escape was a shattered kneecap.”

“Kneecaps are easily replaced,” Ulaz mutters. “Lives, less so. It would have been much easier for you to kill us. Why didn’t you?”

“Again, does it matter?” Shiro shakes his head. “You have your operative Red and I am well aware that my minutes are numbered, here.”

Kolivan shrugs. “A fair point. However, I am not the one who was kidnapped by you.” His gaze falls upon Keith. “What would you have us do with him?”

Keith blinks, and Krolia helps him to his feet. His knees are shaky, more from shock than anything else. When he turns to face Shiro, Shiro’s expression does not change. Keith searches his face, and sees very little. Resignation, maybe. And then,  _ there _ – another flicker of that same pain Keith saw in his eyes in the rain, right before Shiro bound and blindfolded him, and brought him home.

Shiro does not apologize or beg. He doesn’t say anything. And in that moment, Keith understands that Shiro came here fully intending to die. It’s just too bad that Keith’s not going to let him.

Keith swallows, and says, “Take him to the infirmary.”

Shiro’s eyes widen and Krolia’s claws dig into his arm. “Keith –” she starts.

“The infirmary,” Keith repeats firmly. He’s tired, and not in the mood to argue, especially not with his mother. “Stabilize him and put him in a cell. He’s no use to us dead.”

He realizes too late that Shiro has misunderstood his meaning. “No,” Shiro whispers, panic flashing across his face, “no, wait –”

“Very well,” Kolivan says, reluctant, and nods to the guards in the shadows. “Restrain him, and deactivate that prosthetic.”

Shiro glances to and fro, his chest rising and falling unevenly, and he staggers backwards when the crackling blue light of two pulse guns ignites in the guards’ hands. “Don’t,” Shiro says, his voice very small, hands held out in front of him in surrender rather than to attack. The guards exchange looks, and Krolia’s frown deepens. “Just kill me, I’d rather…” His throat works and his eyes shine, glazed with fear. Keith has a sneaking suspicion Shiro sees something no one else can, and whatever it is, it terrifies him.

Keith takes a step forward, between him and the guards, and Shiro’s eyes dart to him. “No one will hurt you, here,” Keith says. “This isn’t like that Galran camp. These are good people.”

Shiro has no reason to trust him. But either he believes Keith’s promise, or he just has no choice, because he stays where he is, his shaking reduced to minute trembles. As the guards approach with wary steps, Shiro says quietly, “I’m just deactivating the arm.” He fumbles around the elbow with his left hand, turning a series of locking rings and pressing his thumb to some kind of revealed scanner. Every gun in the room is trained on him, but the pale blue light goes dark, and the prosthetic thuds to the ground beside him with a dull, metallic clang. 

Literally disarmed, Shiro bows his head, and waits for them to bind his remaining hand without protest. The guards go about their work quickly, flanking him and leading him out of the room, another Blade retrieving the prosthetic and, at a muttered order from Ulaz, carrying it off in the direction of the ripper’s lab. 

As Shiro passes Keith, his downcast eyes flick up, just once, and hold Keith’s gaze for a moment that stretches thin between them, snapping in two when Shiro frowns and looks away, the guards forcing him onwards with the threat of the pulse guns on each side. Thace pauses, inclines his head to Keith, and follows Shiro and his guards at a distance, just in case.

Once they’re gone, Krolia grabs ahold of Keith again, and hugs him a second time for good measure.

_ “Mom,” _ Keith protests weakly, squirming when she sniffs at his neck and the line of his jaw with obvious concern. He’s still shirtless, and though the guards are gone, Kolivan and Ulaz aren’t, and clear their throats in amused embarrassment. 

Krolia is unrepentant. “I smelled you on him, Keith.” Keith turns violently scarlet. “And the second time, it was not a pleasant smell. Did he hurt you?”

“Not the way you’re thinking — I wouldn’t have let him live if he had, Mom. Also, wait — the  _ second _ time?! How often have you been sniffing Shiro?! No, wait, don’t answer that question.” Keith manages to extricate himself from her deathgrip with minor bruising, and only after Krolia has wrangled her jacket onto him, probably because he looked cold or something.

Krolia relaxes. “Ah. I feared the worst, but I am glad to hear I was wrong…” She frowns. “But he still imprisoned you, Keith. He kept you in an environment stressful enough to force you into a premature heat. And he did  _ this.” _ She spits the last word, reaching up to draw her knuckles over the scar on Keith’s cheek. “Bastard.”

“He is,” Keith mumbles, “kind of a bastard. But it’s...he’s...complicated. I mean, I thought he was going to turn me in at the Garrison tonight. Instead, he brought me here. And turned himself in.”

“He is complicated,” Ulaz says, stepping forward, “far more than you know, Keith. But I think you ought to know.”

Keith turns to him, brow furrowed. “Know what?”

“Why Takashi Shirogane is the way he is,” Ulaz sighs.

Keith looks to Krolia. “Did he tell you this?”

She nods, her expression troubled. “You need warm clothes and food first. But then...yes. You should know, too. Ulaz can tell you over a cup of tea after you’re rested and he tends to our...guest.”

“Guest Shiro,” Keith says under his breath, lips quirking. “Huh. Sounds like a plan.”

*

Acxa is as good at killing things as she is at making drinks. 

She’s always preferred making drinks, but killing things is business, not pleasure, and anyway, it’s all she’s ever known. It doesn’t get easier, over the years. Acxa knows some of her colleagues would disagree – some of them even enjoy it – but in the end, the only way she can bring herself to pull the trigger every time is to tell herself they are a thing, an it, not a person. 

That was what she told herself when she killed Allura’s patrol on the corner of Sixth and Steel just over three weeks ago. She did it because she had to. She was under orders. The Alteans had sensitive information on their person; information the Warlords needed. Information Lotor needed. Acxa follows orders, that’s all. She was following orders then, just as she was following orders when she was assigned to keep an eye on Keith Kogane four years ago. 

Lotor only ever tells her and the others as much as they need to know to complete their missions. All he told her about Keith was that the Warlords had reason to believe he was a Galra hybrid involved with an unknown and potentially dangerous third party. Acxa was told to get close to him, to earn his trust. In hindsight, she knows Lotor expected, even  _ wanted, _ her to seduce Keith. What neither of them expected, though, was for Acxa to end up truly caring for Keith.

Lotor still doesn’t know this, not for certain, but he must suspect it. 

In any case, four years ago Acxa found herself presented with the daunting task of gaining the confidence of twenty-one year old Keith Kogane, who was prickly and quiet at best, outright antagonistic and suspicious at worst. It was perhaps one of the most challenging endeavors she’d ever undertaken. Getting into Keith’s bed wasn’t the difficult part. Getting into his bed a  _ second _ time, now, that was tough. The Galra thing helped. So did the whole alcohol thing.

But over the months, their messy hookups and quickies in club bathrooms gave way to something else. A kind of camaraderie, something more than friendship with benefits or, in Lance’s words, “the two hot bartenders who give each other bedroom eyes so much the patrons are scared to hit on either of them.” 

Acxa remembers in vivid detail the night that one brave (read: stupid) patron made a grab for Keith’s ass paired with a particularly lewd and unnecessary comment. She’d reacted on what she can only call instinct: one second she was behind the bar serving a Dark ‘n’ Stormy, the next she was standing over the patron’s cowering form on a floor covered in smashed glass and spilled rum.

Later, in the shadowed entryway of Keith’s apartment, when he had her pressed against the wall and breathless, he’d hissed in her ear,  _ Hell’d you do that for, huh? _

And she’d bared her neck to him and grabbed his hips with ten sharp black claws and gasped to the ceiling as his teeth sank into her neck,  _ You know why, Keith.  _

And things had changed, after that.

So she loves him. Not as a lover, not for over a year, now, but as more than a friend. Family, maybe. That’s the closest word she can put to it. For being half Galra, she doesn’t know much about them, but she thinks they’re meant to be in some kind of pack, a social structure, a support system. It just feels right. It’s always felt right, to be with Keith. Once, it felt right with Lotor, but more and more, Acxa doubts her choices. 

She doubted that Lotor would keep Keith’s best interests in mind when she told him Keith had been kidnapped by a Garrison bounty hunter. And sure enough, though he had made a good show of it, hinting that Acxa must be so worried, after all, she and Keith have gotten so close, Acxa knew all he really cared about was the intel Keith stole from the Garrison's vaults. 

But she had no other choice. If she wanted to save Keith, she needed the Warlords’ resources. And after Allura found out her biggest secret, she did not even have the Pink Lion to fall back on. 

Maybe this was why the Warlords began to look so much uglier to her than they had before. Being at the Pink Lion was an escape from their world of lavish violence and dubious morality. But when Acxa found herself spending every night bartending at Silver Helix instead of at what she had once considered her second home...she was forced to confront some ugly truths about the world she’d chosen, truths she’d tried to turn a blind eye to for too long.

Lotor was a good man, once. She knows this is true. She doesn’t know whether it was his mother or his power that changed him; either way, he is not the man he was when Acxa joined his cause as a hopeful, recently orphaned seventeen year old in the midst of a bitter war.

During the War, Lotor was outspoken in his denouncement of his parents’ evil deeds. Lotor was known for helping refugees; human, Galra, and Altean alike. He had never been overly fond of humans, but Alteans were a different story. Commander Hira and her faction joined with Lotor and his forces in various War efforts, mostly those aimed at stopping the fighting and finding solutions to the increasingly irradiated landscape. 

The humans claimed the Garrison created the Grid, and considering their position of power over it, such an explanation seemed likely, but Acxa knows the Arus Institute and Lotor must have had a hand in it, too. They weren’t always called the Warlords. They weren’t always known as killers and gamblers and dealers. They did good in the world, once. In fact, they tried to save the world. Once.

Keith makes her remember that. If Lotor even thinks of those days, he gives no indication of it.

So it is that she stands in the lobby of the Equinox Apartments, a human guard dying at her feet as he chokes on his own blood as she prays to whatever cruel god might still exist in this fuckup of a world that this is worth it.

Zethrid and Ezor are ahead; Narti has already cracked the elevator systems open. Acxa follows them in a haze; they’re closer than they’ve ever been to finding Keith. They’ve never had an opportunity like this — the bounty hunter has been gone for over twelve hours, and there’s no sign that he took Keith with him. The perfect time to strike is when the snake is away.

The elevator climbs fast, Acxa thinks, but time has slowed.

She never did find out which potentially dangerous third party Keith was involved in. At least, not so far as Lotor or the bounty hunter knows. The Blades will die to keep their secrets, and Acxa never wanted Keith to die. For all she knows, they might be too late, now. Maybe the bounty hunter is gone because he’s finally brought Keith’s head to the Garrison. Maybe they’ll find a crime scene in the apartment, a corpse rather than a captive. 

The elevator stops with a dull chime. Narti temporarily interrupted Eva’s systems with Kova; its blue feminine form flickers in and out of existence in the corner, words crackling with static,  _ “Attention: firewall breach….attention: proceed...caution...attention…” _

Floor 117 is silent save for the thud of their boots and the click of their cocking guns. Zethrid is hungry for a fight, as always, and Ezor wears her manic little grin. Narti walks beside Acxa, quiet and eerie; her matte gray-violet helmet hides whatever is left of her face. 

“What do you think we’ll find?” Acxa asks her under her breath.

Narti shrugs, her cybernetic cat perched atop her shoulders, eyes glowing blue from the Eva program it’s hacked into. 

_ Death or worse, _ Narti’s speech feed transmits to Acxa’s neural chip like a voice in her head, robotic and cool.  _ Maybe we find your mark. Maybe he’s gone already. _

“You know we can _ all  _ hear that shit, right?” Zethrid grumbles over her shoulder. “Suite 9875 is on the left, ladies.”

“Oh, go ahead, we all know you can’t wait to be a Galra battering ram,” Ezor says with a wave of the hand that isn’t carrying a submachine gun. 

Zethrid winks, and slams her entire body weight against the door. It doesn’t budge. Zethrid scowls and Ezor gives her a conciliatory kiss on the cheek. Narti somehow manages to look smug, and presses one of Kova’s paws to the scanner outside the door. After an impatient minute, the door clicks open, easy as anything.

They step inside, and at once Acxa is wary of the narrow hallway and too many doors. They aren’t even ten feet in before she smells it — the lingering sickly sweet pheromones of a Galra in heat. One she knows well.

Ezor gives her a knowing look. “Well,” she drawls, “this oughta be interesting, huh?”

“Quiet,” Acxa mutters. “We haven’t found him yet.”

_ Searching for organic signatures,  _ Narti says. _ Two signatures found.  _

They freeze. “Two?” Zethrid hisses. “That mean I’m gonna get to bash in a merc’s skull tonight after all?”

“Honey, technically we’re mercs, too,” Ezor reminds her. “But that sounds like a good time.”

_ No merc,  _ Narti says. They both sigh in disappointment.  _ One organic signature appears to be the target. The other is...small. _

“Small?” Acxa asks, but Ezor has already stopped in front of a door and is pointing excitedly. 

“Over here. Think this door’s locked. Wear on the knob. And – smell that?” Ezor grins and lowers her voice. “Smells like your boy toy is alive after all. Wooo!”

Acxa glares, and inhales with reluctance. Her eyes narrow. “Yeah, that’s Keith, alright.” 

“You do the honors,” Zethrid says.

Acxa hesitates. Instead of breaking down the door, she calls, “Keith? Keith, are you in there? It’s me. We’re going to get you out of here, okay?”

“Stop it!” Ezor hisses. “What happened to the element of surprise?!”

Then the piercing crash of breaking glass splits the air.

A few shotgun shells and Acxa is stumbling into the room, but then she’s face to face with the bounty hunter, his face as cold as she remembers, colder still when he yanks Keith from under the bed and holds a gun to his head. 

“Wait!” Acxa cries, because she can think of nothing else to say.

Keith is shirtless, soaked in sweat, eyes wild. He reeks of fear and confusion and the look he gives her in the moment before the bounty hunter throws him out the shattered window is one that will haunt her for years afterwards.

The bounty hunter follows him, and when Zethrid runs to the window, firing at the fleeing spinner, Acxa stays frozen. So close. They were so close. 

_ I have discovered the second heat signature, _ Narti announces. 

Acxa turns on her heel and marches out of the room, away from the image of Keith screaming, away from the scent of his suffering, away from Zethrid’s swearing and Ezor’s frustrated yell. She follows Narti to a bedroom, where the hybrid is crouched beside the bed, peering under it. Kova stands beside her, growling.

Acxa doesn’t understand until she peers under the bed too and sees a terrified pair of yellow eyes staring back at her. 

_ It is a cat,  _ Narti says, unnecessarily.

The cat hisses when Kova paws at it. “A real cat?” Acxa whispers. 

Narti stands.  _ It is inconsequential. Without its owner it will starve here. Kova can put it out of its misery. _

“I don’t think so.” Acxa is reaching under the bed without a thought, ignoring the claws raking across her forearms as she tugs the squirming, yowling cat from under the bed. 

Narti watches with Kova.  _ It has only three legs,  _ Narti observes. 

“Yes,” Acxa says. She looks down at the furious bundle of black fur in her arms. “The bounty hunter’s pet?”

Narti shrugs and leaves the room.  _ Lotor will not approve. _

Acxa isn’t sure if she’s referring to the cat or the mission failure, but either way, she’s right.

*

Acxa calls the cat Cat. Cat doesn’t care much either way. She still hates Acxa with a vengeance, though not as much as she hates the other Warlords. Or Lotor. Oh, Cat hates Lotor with every fiber of her tiny, furry, angry being.

Acxa keeps Cat in her room in the back of Silver Helix, in a cage Ezor gave her with a little too much glee. She feeds her leftover fish and shrimp and hamburger meat from the kitchen, and it’s only when Acxa gives her some salmon nigiri that Cat starts to warm up to her. And by ‘warm up,’ Acxa means that Cat no longer tries to remove all her fingers whenever she tries to pet her.

“The poor thing is probably diseased, you know,” Lotor says on one unwelcome late-night visit. Acxa leans against the wall beside the cage, watching him warily. “The three legs must be caused by radiation, or cancer could have taken the fourth. Either way, I’m not sure you’re doing it a favor by prolonging its pitiful existence.”

Acxa frowns. “I’m not sure that’s your choice to make.”

He chuckles. “Don’t you have a shift to attend to behind the bar?”

Her frown deepens. “I’m serious. Even if the cat is going to die, I’d rather give it a good life with the time it has left.”

“A good life in a cage?” Lotor’s teeth glint in a thin smile.

But he leaves, and she locks her door before returning to the bar, even though she knows he has the key.

*

Cat doesn’t die. Cat stays alive through sheer spite, Acxa thinks. She can relate. 

Maybe that’s why Cat finally lets Acxa pet her after three days, and then take her out of the cage after five, and finally resigns herself to sleeping in a small black ball at the end of Acxa’s bed after six days. The morning Acxa wakes up to a mouthful of fur and a pair of curious golden eyes staring down at her is one of the best mornings in recent memory. 

“You are a good cat, Cat,” Acxa says, and pets her velvet ears very carefully. Cat purrs, and kneads her chest until she draws blood through Acxa’s tank top. Acxa doesn’t mind. 

After all, working at Silver Helix is like getting clawed by hundreds of cats every night. Acxa wonders how she could have been so numb to it before. Maybe it’s because now, Keith’s dead, or worse, and the Pink Lion has banished her for good. With all the brightness in her life gone, it’s so much easier to see how permanent the stains of cruelty have become. 

Silver Helix, for all its shiny chrome and glittering lights, is one big stain. Every Galra who walks through the club’s revolving doors is either affiliated with the Warlords in some way, or terribly lost and making the worst mistake of their lives.

Some days, Acxa doesn’t know which category she falls under, anymore.

She presses Lotor for information about Keith as much as anyone can press Lotor about anything, which is very lightly and with the constant understanding that you might be eviscerated by his mere gaze at any given moment. He tells her nothing she doesn’t already know – likelier than not, the bounty hunter brought Keith to the Garrison, and he is either being tortured or sentenced to die. 

There aren’t enough resources for prisons anymore, so simple imprisonment is unlikely. Capital punishment kills two birds with one stone: one less criminal and one less mouth to feed.

This is what Lotor tells her.

A week after she failed to save Keith, she’s drinking bourbon at the bar after hours when Lotor slides onto the stool next to her. She eyes him around a mouthful of ice and alcohol, burning down her throat when she swallows hard. 

“Can I get you something?” she asks, voice as dull as the dead strobes overhead.

He shakes his head, hands steepled in front of his face in a pose that almost looks like prayer, but which is most certainly not. “No, thank you,” Lotor says. “I just wanted to talk.”

“Alright,” Acxa says, and wishes she’d just taken the whole bottle.

“I can see the loss of your target has distressed you,” Lotor murmurs. “And...I wanted to apologize. Perhaps if I had complied with your demands to move in sooner, this could have been avoided. And perhaps not.”

She grunts noncommittally. “I’m fine, sir,” she says.

He sighs. “You’re not. Listen, Acxa. We’ve known each other a long time, and I know that you’re hurting right now. I just want to offer a possible solution – something that might ease the pain. You see, we’ve discovered that Princess Allura, the owner of the establishment which formerly employed you, is involved in your target’s kidnapping. To what extent, we don’t know, but Narti discovered that the Princess was keeping your target under surveillance while he was trapped in Equinox.”

Acxa’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Yes,” Lotor says. “She might know something. She is, of course, far too well protected for us to go after. Her adviser, however…”

“Coran?” Acxa blinks. “You think he knows something?”

“About Keith Kogane? Oh yes, I think so,” Lotor says. “And, if we’re lucky, about the stolen intel, too.”

Acxa takes another drink. “What are you asking, sir?”

“Go to the Pink Lion when you know he’ll be there,” Lotor says. “Lure him into a false sense of security, and capture him.”

“And then?”

“And then we will see exactly what he knows,” Lotor says. “And you will get the revenge you deserve.”

*

Coran has always been too trusting for his own good. 

“Acxa,  _ really,  _ when you told me you wanted to chat this was  _ not _ what I was expecting!” he exclaims, blinking open a bruised-shut eye in the gloom of the Silver Helix basement. His impeccably styled mustache is all askew, and though he didn’t put up much of a fight when she knocked him out behind the Pink Lion and dragged him into the trunk of her spinner, he struggles against the rope bonds now, the chair legs clattering on the concrete.

“Stop,” Acxa says, and draws her stiletto from her belt, letting it drag absently over the countertop. 

Coran watches it, his eyes bugging out in di sbelief. “Acxa,” he whispers, “surely you will listen to reason, you are a very reasonable woman –”

“Don’t presume to know me,” Acxa says. “If you knew me, you would know I’m a Warlord. And I have been, for years. Did your Princess tell you that?”

Coran shakes his head, lower lip trembling. “She doesn’t talk much about you, Acxa, she regrets what she did, in the name of King Alfor himself, I swear to you –”

“Oh, does she?” Acxa’s lip curls. “Is that why she sent me into the private room with the bounty hunter who kidnapped Keith to tell him everything I knew? Is that why she sold us out because we’re Galra?”

“No!” Coran says, shaking his head emphatically. “No, the Princess hasn’t sold Keith out, she was trying to get him back! She and I have been keeping him under near-constant surveillance, and we’re even in contact with his mother, and –”

“You  _ what?” _ Acxa whispers, nearly dropping her knife in shock. “You know his mother? I – how – do you know what’s happened to him?”

Coran bites his lip and glances around. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, should I?” he whispers. “This is an interrogation, isn’t it? Oh, dear. I really have gone and ruggled up this whole thing!”

Acxa has her knife to his throat in half a second.

“Oh, quiznak,” Coran whimpers. “Quite the sticky wicket I find myself in, eh?”

“Answer the question,” Acxa growls, and lets herself shift. Coran flinches back at the sight of her glowing eyes and violet skin, and she bares her fangs in warning. 

“Okay!” he yelps, squeezing his eyes shut. “Just – please, don’t hurt Keith, boy’s been through plenty, what with that Shirogane fellow up and kidnapping him and then giving him the scare with –” Coran takes a deep, shuddering breath. “He’s alive, is the point. And I know where. But –”

“He’s alive,” Acxa repeats, and takes a step back. “At the Garrison?”

He shakes his head. “Er...no. I’m afraid his location is, er, so secret I’d have to kill you if I told you. Or you’d have to kill me.” Coran looks down, his shoulders hunched. “Suppose you’ll have to kill me, then.”

Acxa grits her teeth, and the basement doors slide open. Zethrid and Ezor step inside, their faces grim, thinly veiling their true excitement. “Did someone say kill?” Zethrid asks, cracking her knuckles and circling around to face Coran, who looks close to fainting already. “Because I’m in the mood for a little killing. Just a little.”

“Don’t,” Acxa mutters. Coran’s eyes dart to her. He’s shaking. Acxa thinks of late nights sitting with Coran and Keith as he helps them clean and makes them the most fabulous drinks anyone could dream of, glittering concoctions crowned with maraschino cherries and whipped cream, and her gut twists. 

“Aw, c’mon,” Ezor says, slinging an arm around Acxa’s shoulders, “let’s rough up the poncy Altean, just like old times. A few broken ribs here and there, a ruptured spleen maybe –”

“I need to handle this,” Acxa says. “Alone.”

Zethrid and Ezor exchange looks. “You’re really no fun these days,” Ezor snaps, hands on her hips. “But, fine. Lotor expects a thorough job, though – if you’re not up for the task, just give us a call. Alfor will offer a big bounty for this one, but we’ve got no shortage of money, so...”

“Really wish we had a spare hoktril,” Zethrid grumbles. “Give ‘em a taste of their own poison.”

Coran blanches in obvious terror, curling in on himself, but wisely says nothing. 

Acxa folds her arms. “He’s Alfor’s, not Hira’s. In any case, I need him to talk, not drool. Any other helpful suggestions?”

Zethrid glowers and stalks out, pulling Ezor behind her. “Have fun,” Ezor calls over her shoulder, and the doors click shut again.

“Never took you for the violent type,” Coran mumbles, staring at his feet. “Well, go on, then...do what you must.”

Acxa kneels on one knee before him. “You need to tell me where Keith is,” she whispers, “and I’ll get you out of here.”

“Ah, false promises,” Coran notes, “very clever. Unfortunately, won’t work on me. These lips are sealed.”

Acxa’s claws close around his bound wrist. “Listen to me. I am going to go upstairs. I am going to figure out how to get us both the hell out of here. And then I am going to come back and you are going to be right where I left you. Understood?”

“Crystal clear,” he squeaks, and she pulls her claws away. “Acxa, please –”

“Quiet,” she warns, and hurries out of the room.

Silver Helix is filled with patrons in varying stages of drunkenness and undress; it’s just her luck that Lotor would number among them. His silk v-neck plunges to a truly absurd depth, and privately Acxa thinks it would look less obscene if he’d just forgone a shirt altogether. 

He’s well aware of this, judging by the look he gives her as they fall into step, side by side. 

“Finished already?” Lotor asks, his breath an unwanted caress against the shell of her pierced ear. 

“No,” Acxa says. “Just in need of...other tools to get the job done.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do elaborate.”

“You’ll see,” Acxa says, stopping in the crush of the crowd and turning towards him – two can play at this awful game of theirs. Her finger catches the silver cord around his neck, and he stumbles into her, his eyes half-lidded and intrigued, his silver hair brushing against her soft throat. “Thank you for this,” she adds, and leans in until he can feel her breath on his neck. “I forgot what it felt like.”

“What?” Lotor whispers, and she can hear his increasing heartbeat, and is comforted by it – he is only a man, after all. Not a god, not a monster. She has to remind herself of that.

“Hurting things because you want to,” Acxa says, and lets go.

He lets her go, too, never knowing it will be for the last time. His smile follows her long after he vanishes into the crowd. 

Acxa doesn’t breathe properly until she’s in her room, with Cat at her feet, eyes wide and wondering. Acxa braces herself against the wall and sucks in oxygen, hair falling into her face.

_ “Mrow,” _ Cat says, and rubs against her ankles like she knows Acxa needs it, needs the touch, the comfort, the anchor. Maybe she does know. Maybe her bounty hunter had demons, too.

Acxa scoops Cat up into her arms, and Cat only protests a little. “I’m sorry about this,” Acxa tells her, and stuffs Cat into her ammo bag. 

*

So that is how Acxa ends up stealing a Warlord spinner (after ripping out the tracking node and throwing it into a Dumpster) with a bewildered, tied up Altean royal advisor and a furious yowling cat in the backseat.

All it took was a minor explosion and a very big sledgehammer. She’s glad she saved that pipe bomb for as long as she did – she knew it would come in handy someday. 

Lotor is going to kill her. If he finds her. Which he won’t. 

“Coran,” Acxa says, “directions, please?”

“Righto,” Coran wheezes. “Why am I still tied up?”

“Directions first,” Acxa says. “I know you’re not all bark – remember that time you threw the patron with a snake tattoo and one eye out of the Pink Lion after he insulted your mustache?”

“Barely had to lift a finger,” Coran recalls proudly, and then frowns. “I see your point. Hmph. Fine, then, I suppose you blasting a hole into the basement and shooting Alfor knows how many Galra proves your loyalties well enough. But we can’t go straight to Keith – I wasn’t lying about the secrecy!”

Acxa exhales forcefully through her nose. “Fine. Still need a location.”

“Katie Holt’s garage,” Coran declares. “Er, well, park the spinner a few blocks away, don’t want to be attracting attention, though the place is a proper Fort Knox these days, after the bounty hunter broke in –”

“Coran. Give me a damn address.”

“1713 West Olive Street, Sector 8!”

The spinner veers sharply to the left and Cat screeches. So does Coran.

It is a very long drive. 

*

“But, like, what does quiznak mean,  _ exactly?” _ Pidge asks around a mouthful of popcorn. She’s sitting on the floor in the pile of blankets and couch cushions they assembled hours ago for a much-needed movie night (no boys allowed). The last week has been a dizzying rollercoaster, between learning that Shirogane had returned Keith to his family and turned himself in, to being contacted by Krolia and Kolivan, leader of the most clandestine organization in the Grid. It’s good to unwind with Pidge, even if it does mean Pidge demands a crash course in inappropriate Altean slang. 

Allura wrinkles her nose in thought. “I suppose it’s similar to ‘fuck,’ just...not so vulgar?”

“So, like, ‘shit?’”

“No, no, that would be close to ‘snartloft,’” Allura muses, resting her chin in her hand. “Hmm…‘ruggle’ is more like ‘fuck’ in literal meaning, so quiznak would be more like...a slightly more vulgar ‘crap’ or even ‘hell.’”

“Ruggle? Coran says that all the time!” Pidge flops back onto her small mountain of pillows with a snort. “He swears a lot, huh.”

“Oh, yes,” Allura chuckles, taking her own, much daintier handful of popcorn. “He got in trouble with my father many times when I was young for that mouth of his.”

Pidge laughs, shaking her head. “I can’t imagine you as a little kid, honestly. Sure you didn’t come out of the womb with hair rivaling a lion and impeccable glitter eyeshadow?”

Allura cackles, and covers her mouth, but Pidge is laughing with her. “Fairly certain,” Allura giggles. “But there’s no telling. Father does say I was a naughty child. Always getting into trouble...and my mother’s makeup, for that matter.”

Pidge stops laughing, and smiles softly, instead. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Allura sighs, settling into the blankets next to her and staring at the bare rafters of the garage’s ceiling. “I loved her pink lipstick...and her perfume. She had this bottle that she wore all the time, and it smelled like lavender and…” Allura bites her lip. “I kept that bottle for years after, but I could never bring myself to wear it, because whenever I tried, I...it smelled like she was right there. Right beside me. But she never…I...oh, Katie. I miss her so much, even now, even when it’s been decades, and I ought to be over it...” 

“Hey.” Pidge grasps blindly for her hand and squeezes, once. Allura looks at her, knowing Pidge reserves anything tactile only for special occasions. “There’s no rule saying you gotta be over it. You don’t have to. You might never be over it...and that’s okay. You know? It’s okay to remember stuff like perfume, I think. That way, you’ll always have that part of her with you, even if it hurts too much to think about it all the time.”

Allura smiles at her in the private shadows between them. “You are very wise for your twenty years, Katie Holt.”

Pidge shrugs. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t you tell me once you’re really only twenty-two by Altean standards –”

Before Allura can exclaim that Pidge better keep that information to herself or else, someone knocks on the door. They both bolt upright, and Pidge’s hand strays to Allura’s taser on her belt. She’s taken to carrying it since Shirogane paid her a visit, but he’s locked up in Thaldcyon now…

“Princess!” Coran exclaims, and they both relax, only to tense at his next words. “A little help, here? Either Acxa is thrilled to see me, or she has a very sharp knife to my back!”

_ “Acxa?” _ Pidge whispers, scrambling to her feet and helping Allura up. They’re both in their pajamas, hair all askew, and Allura feels ridiculous when she cocks her gun and heads towards the door. 

Coran knocks again, more urgently this time, and Allura jerks her head towards the other door, mouthing,  _ Go. I’ll handle this. _

Pidge shakes her head, gripping the taser with white knuckles, and Allura makes an executive decision to wrench the door open.

“Hi, Princess Allura,” Coran says with his signature wonky grin, albeit a bit more shaken than usual. He has an impressive black eye, and sure enough, Acxa is behind him, her Galran appearance shocking, though Allura knows she should have expected it. 

“Coran,” Allura whispers, and then, “Acxa. What’s the meaning of this?”

“This one told me he knows where Keith is,” Acxa snaps, though Allura can see her hands trembling, see the uncertainty in her expression, see the strain in her stance – she’s had a long night. Maybe a long week, too.

“Yes,” Allura says. “We know where Keith is. Please release my adviser.”

“No,” Acxa says. “I want an address.”

“That won’t be possible,” Allura says. “You are a Warlord...Keith is part of another Galran organization, but one whose name is not spoken to outsiders on pain of death. He is in their headquarters, healing and resting from his imprisonment in the Equinox Apartments.”

“I don’t believe you,” Acxa whispers. “I was there, in Equinox, the night that bounty hunter…” She swallows hard. “Shirogane took Keith, threw him out the window into a spinner, and drove off. You expect me to believe he didn’t take him straight to the Garrison?”

“He didn’t,” Allura insists, shaking her head. “He took Keith to his family, he – we don’t know why, Acxa. Shirogane is healing and resting, too.”

“He’s alive?!” Acxa snarls, brow lowering. 

“Because Keith told them to keep him alive,” Allura says. “Acxa, please – I’m sorry. For...for everything. You have every right to be angry, but – keep Coran out of this.”

Acxa looks like she might argue, and then her hands fall limply to her side and Coran leaps away, stumbling into the safety of the garage. Acxa frowns, and Allura faces her, preparing herself for the worst but desperately hoping it won’t come to that. 

“I just blew up a third of Silver Helix,” Acxa tells her quietly. “Don’t think I’m a Warlord anymore, if that makes you hate me any less.”

“You killed my people that night,” Allura murmurs. “Didn’t you?”

Acxa nods, her eyes downcast. “I had orders.”

Allura doesn’t know the whole story, but she knows a few things about the Warlords, and a few things more about their leader. She also knows allies are hard to come by in the Grid, and enemies turned ally are even rarer, and all the more precious for it. So she extends her hand, and says, “Acxa, I don’t hate you.”

And when Acxa’s gaze lifts, confused, conflicted, and just a little bit hopeful, Allura says, “Let’s talk, okay? Let’s talk.”

“Okay,” Acxa says, her shoulders slumping in the relief of a freed woman. “Let’s talk, ma’am.”

*

Of all the people Keith expected to see in Thaldcyon, Acxa is not one of them. Yet, there she is, standing beside Krolia and glancing around like she can’t quite believe she’s here, either. None of the others have been allowed into Thaldcyon proper – Keith has only communicated with Allura, Lance, Pidge, and Hunk over video chat. 

“Hey,” he whispers, taking an uncertain step forward. His heat officially ended three days ago, but his body is still recovering from shock, according to Ulaz. He only has a second to wonder if Acxa is a hyper-realistic fever dream before she’s embracing him, only letting go when Krolia clears her throat in warning. 

“Hey,” Acxa whispers back. Her eyes are red-rimmed. “Thought you were dead, asshole.”

“You – you’re a damn Warlord, asshole yourself!” Keith splutters.

Krolia folds her arms. “Not anymore, she isn’t. Someone set off a pipe bomb in the basement of Silver Helix yesterday and shot their way out, and I doubt Lotor is allowing _ that _ much rebellion in his gang.”

Acxa flushes. “It’s true,” she mutters. “Lotor runs a tight ship. Too tight for my liking.”

Keith snorts helplessly, and she meets his eyes and snorts too, and then they’re both laughing uncontrollably, and Keith hugs her again, letting his claws dig into her leather jacket just because he can. “I missed you,” he says. 

“Missed you too,” Acxa sighs, and holds him at arm's’ length, her mouth twisting. “That night, in Equinox, Keith, I…”

Keith shakes his head. “No. It’s okay, that wasn’t your fault, he...Shiro brought me to Thaldcyon. He fought his way out of here to get back to Equinox and return me to the Blades.”

Her frown deepens. “Why? What’s his angle?”

Keith takes a step away and sighs. “I wish I knew.”

“Have you...spoken to him?” 

“Not yet,” Keith admits. “The Blades almost took him down here; we’re still not sure how he lasted as long as he did.” A lie; Ulaz knows, and he’s told Keith all he knows about Shiro. But Acxa doesn’t need to know. Sometimes Keith wishes he didn’t know. If he didn’t know, it would make hating Shiro so much easier.

Then again, Keith isn’t sure he ever hated Shiro in the first place.

“He’s been recovering,” Keith finishes, trying to keep his voice steady. “Why, you wanna talk to him?”

Acxa hesitates, then retrieves the ammo bag she dropped beside Krolia. “Sort of,” Acxa says, and unzips the bag. “I stole something from his apartment. Or, um...someone? Uh. Here.”

The ammo bag hisses and the shadows within squirm angrily. Keith’s eyes widen, and Acxa picks up a struggling Pandora, holding her gingerly. “This is Shirogane’s, right?” Acxa asks, looking down at the cat and back at Keith, who is still processing. “I didn’t just steal a random three-legged cat from Equinox, did I?”

“It’s his, yeah,” Keith manages, and reaches out. “Hi, Pandora. Never thought I’d see you again.”

Pandora pauses in her dramatic writhing to sniff at his hand. “Mrrow?” she says, suspiciously.

“Pandora,” Acxa echoes, and smiles. “Pretty.” She nods and starts to hand the cat to Keith. “You should have her. I think she’s scared of me, all things considered, and my living situation is temporary at best, so…”

“I think Shiro would...appreciate seeing her first,” Keith says carefully. “Pandora is. Special to him.”

“Is that wise?” Krolia demands, eyes narrowing. 

“Mom, he’s behind a kinetic barrier and steel bars,” Keith says. “I think we’ll be okay.”

She squints for a few more seconds before nodding stiffly and gesturing for them to follow. “Very well.”

Acxa keeps Pandora in her arms as they continue down the halls of Thaldcyon. “This place is huge,” Acxa whispers. “Is it all underground?”

Keith nods. “Modified fallout shelter.”

“Must get claustrophobic down here.”

“More than you know.”

There are six guards outside of Shiro’s cell, which seems excessive. Krolia exchanges a few quiet words with the patrol leader, who eyes Acxa and the cat, nods, and unlocks the door for them to pass.

“I will be outside, Keith,” Krolia says, her hand clamping down briefly on his shoulder. 

“We’ll be quick,” Keith promises, and he and Acxa pass through the heavy metal doors, which slide shut and lock with a hiss behind them. 

The chamber is a rough semicircle of concrete illuminated by cool fluorescents. Shiro’s cell lies perpendicular to the far wall, facing the curve of the room in a smaller semicircle defined by steel bars and a faint blue kinetic barrier. It is a grim room, Keith thinks, and his heart does something funny and terrible at the sight of Shiro curled against the wall on his cot in the corner, knees tucked close to his chest, head turned away.

He tenses as if electrocuted when Keith approaches the cell and says, “Hello, Shiro.”

Shiro makes a soft, derisive sound, and does not look up. There’s a tray of mostly untouched food a few feet away from him, along with a half-empty cup of water. Keith thinks of cheeseburgers and milkshakes and winces.

“We have someone you might want to see,” Keith adds. Acxa approaches slowly, the cat twisting in her arms, ears pricked. 

As soon as Pandora catches sight of Shiro, she strains forward and lets out a plaintive mew.

Shiro lifts his head, and Keith is struck by the pallor to his skin and the dark circles under his eyes. His heart does another stupid thing at the sight, and then again when Shiro whispers, “She’s alive?” and uncurls from his cot, lips parting when Pandora meows again. “She’s alive.” He stares at Acxa. “You. You were one of the Warlords. Acxa, from the Pink Lion. The other bartender...” He trails off.

Acxa nods, clearly as unsettled by his appearance as Keith is. “I couldn’t leave her there, the others would have killed her –”

“I know.” Shiro can’t seem to stop staring at Pandora. “I thought they did.”

“No,” Acxa says. “She’s alright. Maybe a little chubby, I fed her a lot of salmon because she liked that, but…”

Shiro turns away, and only Keith hears the hitch in his breath. “I see.”

“I’m giving her to Keith,” Acxa adds, and hands Pandora to Keith for good measure. “So, she’ll be close by, at least.”

“Okay.” Shiro doesn’t face them. 

Acxa looks to Keith and mouths,  _ What now? _

Keith shakes his head, thoughts swirling, coalescing in the knowledge of the innocuous, faded scar he knows must be hidden in plain sight on the back of Shiro’s skull. “I’ll take care of her, Shiro,” he says, and Shiro’s head turns just so, enough for Keith to see the hard line of his jaw and the soft dark brush of lashes across his cheek.

As they leave with Pandora, Keith lingers in the doorway, and watches Shiro slump and curl back down onto his cot with a single choked sob, covering his face with his hand.

*

That night, after Acxa has left, Keith lies on the futon in the windowless bedroom he spent the better part of his teenage years in, Pandora curled up on his chest, and wonders what Shiro dreams about.

*

The next day, Thace is on guard duty, because apparently Keith’s luck is turning around, for once.

“I need you to let me into the cell room and lower the kinetic barrier,” Keith tells him.

Thace laughs. Keith doesn’t.

“Absolutely not,” Thace says.

Keith raises his eyebrows. “I’ll tell Ulaz about the ring.”

Thace’s mouth falls open. “You wouldn’t!”

“You know I would.” Keith shakes his head. “Come on, you’ve had that thing for three years, when are you gonna propose already –”

_ “Shhh!” _ Thace snaps, glancing to the two guards stationed well within earshot. “How is it that you’re twenty-five and still such a brat?”

“Some people are into that,” Keith deadpans. Thace glowers. “I’m not planning anything, okay? I just...want to see him.”

“Mrrow,” Keith’s jacket says. Pandora peeks out from under his collar. 

Thace jumps and peers down at her, face softening. “That’s new. On both counts. You...actually  _ want _ to see Shirogane?”

“Have you seen him, lately?” Keith retorts. “He looks like shit. And you know about...what he went through. He doesn’t need more of that.”

“Nobody’s surgically implanting anything into him,” Thace mutters. “I keep track of that much.”

“He’s been more or less alone in there for a week,” Keith snaps. “You think it’s a good idea for him to be alone with his thoughts?”

“Ah,” Thace says. “Hm.”

Keith waits.

“Your mother will have my head,” Thace sighs, and nods to the door. “Go. But if anything happens –”

“I’ll be fine,” Keith says, and believes it, even as the doors lock behind him and the kinetic barrier falls a moment after.

The chamber seems bigger without Acxa beside him, and the distance to Shiro’s cell longer.

Shiro sits upright, a jerky, almost mechanical motion. He stares blankly at the empty spaces between the steel bars, each one a handspan wide. He stares at Keith through them, and the emptiness fades.

Keith sets Pandora down on the ground. As soon as her paws hit the concrete, she’s padding over to Shiro’s cell, sniffing curiously at the air, hesitating before slinking through the bars with only a little effort. 

Shiro shies away, shaking visibly.

_ “What,” _ he says, and Pandora butts her head against his knee. “...Keith?”

He looks hopelessly lost, an expression which intensifies as Keith pulls a bottle of Jameson from his jacket, which has a lot of pockets.

“I kinda forgot glasses,” Keith says with a shrug, uncorking the bottle with a twist of his claws. Shiro says nothing, eyes flicking frantically from Keith’s violet skin to his curved ears to said claws. “Oh,” Keith says. “Sorry, uh...one sec.”

He closes his eyes and Shiro makes a strangled noise that might be “ _ Why?”  _ before Keith feels himself shifting, a familiar change that ripples over his skin like goosebumps before his Galra features recede. 

“Better?” Keith asks, and sits down in front of the cell, close enough that Shiro could reach through the bars and wring his neck if he wanted to. He doesn’t, though. He just sits opposite, frozen, with Pandora in his lap, scrunching her eyes shut in simple contentment. 

“What are you doing,” Shiro whispers.

Keith takes a swig from the bottle and hands it to him. “What’s it look like?”

“Something stupid,” Shiro says, and takes the bottle, weighing it in his hand. “This is glass. I could break it and attack you.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “But you won’t.”

Shiro’s brows draw together, but he takes a pull from the bottle, and when he hands it back, his skin is flushed with a glow it was missing, before. “Jameson is kind of shitty,” Shiro says, conversationally.

“No wonder it’s your favorite,” Keith counters, and smirks when he swallows. 

“Alright, Mr. Scotch-On-The-Rocks,” Shiro says, and takes another drink when offered. 

Keith tilts his head. “You actually remember that?”

Shiro shrugs, gaze sliding away. “It was a memorable night, what can I say?”

“Feeling’s mutual,” Keith says. Their fingers brush when Shiro hands the bottle back.

Shiro eyes him. “Why are you really here?”

“I need a reason?”

“Ulaz told you, didn’t he,” Shiro says, and doesn’t take the bottle, this time. Keith hesitates, and Shiro’s jaw tightens. “This a pity party, then?”

“No,” Keith says. “It’s not. Pity, I mean. But I...I didn’t want you to be alone, I guess.”

Shiro opens his mouth, then closes it. “Oh.”

“Do you like books?” Keith asks. “I feel like you’re the kind of guy who would like books.”

Shiro’s chuckle is unexpected and wonderful. “Now, what is  _ that _ supposed to mean?”

Keith snorts, leaning back on his hand. “Nothin. I like books, too. Just figured it’s boring in here, some reading material might help.”

Shiro eyes him. “I swear to God, if you come back with a – a damn Playboy or something –”

Keith grins. “Of course not. Only the classics. Pretty sure I have  _ The Chronicles of Narnia _ somewhere –”

“Oh my god, those are practically ancient manuscripts,” Shiro says.  _ “Narnia? _ The – the Christian allegory books with the lion Jesus?”

“His name is Aslan and they’re good books,” Keith says defensively. “My mom read them to me because all of the different worlds reminded her of stories she’d heard of Daibazaal, and all the other planets…”

Shiro is smiling. “Aslan,” he repeats, and shakes his head. “Okay. I won’t say no to Narnia.”

“The ending is really fucked up, though,” Keith warns him. 

“Noted.” Shiro pauses. “Do you have  _ The Hobbit?” _

“I  _ knew  _ you were a nerd,” Keith says under his breath.

“Well,” Shiro mumbles, stealing a second sip of whiskey, “I  _ was _ an astrophysics major.”

“I do have  _ The Hobbit,” _ Keith says. Shiro’s face lights up. “Could never get through it, though. It reads like the driest textbook ever, and did he really have to include so many damn names?”

Shiro gasps at him. “How dare you? Tolkien created  _ entire languages, _ he is a  _ master _ of worldbuilding –”

“I like Narnia better,” Keith says. “Doesn’t matter how built the world is if I can’t finish chapter one.”

“That’s it,” Shiro says. “I can’t drink with someone who speaks such slander –”

“I can’t believe you’re a Tolkien fanboy –”

“ – and you think Narnia is better?!  _ Narnia. _ Keith,  _ no.” _

“Keith, yes.”

“Mrow,” Pandora says.

“Exactly.” Shiro pats her head. “That’s two against one.”

Somewhere along the line, they finished two-thirds of the bottle. Oops. 

Keith is very warm, and he bets Shiro is, too. 

“You had a crush on Aragorn, didn’t you? You totally did.”

Shiro lifts his chin. “I’m not drunk enough to answer that.”

“You don’t need to. I know.”

“Better than a crush on a Jesus lion,” Shiro counters, leaning back against the wall with a smirk. 

Keith makes a face. “I think that’s blasphemy. Among other long b-words that end in y.”

Shiro giggles at him. “Oh, you’re funny.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.” Shiro studies him, his mirth fading as he does so. “But you didn’t get me drunk just to talk about how hot Aragorn is.”

Keith folds his arms. “What’s your theory, then?”

“I found you on accident, you know,” Shiro says. “I didn’t go to the Pink Lion the first night to find you. I went to get drunk. It was...mm, a stroke of fate.”

Keith blinks, and sets down the bottle, out of reach. “Get drunk a lot, did you?”

“Guess so,” Shiro says, vision unfocused. “People drink to stop feeling things. But I already felt nothing. Layers of numbness, y’know? And sometimes, when I drank enough, I think I tricked my brain into feeling things. And it was better than violence.”

“Self-destructive, though,” Keith murmurs.

“I’ve already self-destructed,” Shiro says. “What’s a little more?”

“No,” Keith says. “No, that wasn’t you. That wasn’t your fault.”

“All the people I killed would disagree,” Shiro says, looking at a point far beyond where Keith can see. “So would my brain. I read once that all we are, is our brain. Scary, isn’t it?”

“You don’t believe in souls?” Keith asks.

“I believe I don’t have one anymore,” Shiro says. “That’s what it feels like, Keith, when they put that thing in your head...like losing something beyond yourself, something you can never get back.” He sighs. “That’s why, Keith. That’s why I couldn’t give you to them. They were going to take that from you, too.”

Keith falters. “My – my soul?”

“You,” Shiro says. “It takes away  _ you.”  _ He cradles Pandora in his arm, buries a kiss in her fur, and nudges her out of the cell. “And I like you,” Shiro says. “I don’t want you gone.”

“Shiro,” Keith breathes, the room spinning, and not just from the alcohol. “I –”

“Don’t forget to bring Narnia,” Shiro slurs, watching him through the bars. “And Aragorn.”

“I won’t,” Keith promises, and takes the alcohol and the cat as he stands, though every instinct is telling him to reach between the bars and touch Shiro’s flushed, beautiful face. 

“Thank you,” Shiro says. And then, so quiet Keith almost misses it, “It almost felt real, this time.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! slightly late update because my life is super busy n stressful, so because of this, expect updates every other thursday instead of every week. sometimes it just be like that! college is still kicking my ass but im determined to win so...yEAH
> 
> in the meantime, thanks for all of your comments and support, they make the effort & time required to write this story all the more worth it <3

“Keith, would you like to explain to me why Mr. Shirogane is reading a very familiar copy of _The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe?”_

Keith sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes. Pandora yawns and claws his ribs affectionately. Krolia stands, or rather looms, in the doorway, hands on her hips. It is too early for this.

“Because it’s a good book and I gave it to him?” Keith mumbles.

Her eyes narrow. “Does that mean Thace’s confession this morning that he lowered the kinetic barrier last night while you were in the cell with Shirogane is true?”

“Uh.” Keith sweats. “Yes.”

Her eyes are slits. “Keith.”

“Look, Mom, I know you don’t like him...because he injured a lot of Blades...and he kidnapped your only child...but it’s wrong to keep him trapped in there alone. To be honest, I think it might kill him.”

She scoffs. “If he even can be killed. Keith, he is dangerous —”

“So am I,” Keith retorts. “I’m more dangerous than he is, in the state he’s in.” (He’s not certain of this at all.)

“He heals fast —”

“Physically,” Keith says. “Not mentally. Not emotionally.”

She frowns. “You feel sorry for him.”

“I don’t know what I feel about him,” Keith admits, curling his fingers in the sheets and Pandora’s fur. “But I know he brought me home, and I know he’s been hurt, and I know he could have hurt me more than he did. So much more. But he didn’t.”

“That is no way to measure the worth of a man,” Krolia mutters.

“He doesn’t believe he has any worth,” Keith says. Krolia pauses. “It’s true. He came here to die, Mom.”

“No,” she says. “It doesn’t make sense, Keith. I don’t trust him or his intentions. His kind thinks ten steps ahead.”

Keith hesitates. “He told me something last night. He told me he didn’t bring me to the Garrison because...I think they were planning to use a hoktril on me. Turn me into a non-cog.”

Krolia inhales sharply, and takes a step forward, hands curling into fists at her sides. “What?!” she breathes. “Why — but they want information from you, not…a mindless slave.”

“Maybe they modified a hoktril, made one that makes non-cogs talk,” Keith says. “I don’t know. But either way...Shiro didn’t let them do that to me.”

“Yes, because his own past haunts him, as it should.” Krolia’s brow furrows, her gaze straying to the scar across his cheek. “Do not forget what he did to you, Keith. If the Garrison had simply planned to torture you, do you think he would have hesitated to bring you straight to them? Keith, he is a bounty hunter. He saw you as an object, to be caught and sold off to the highest bidder.”

“If he saw me as an object then why didn’t he treat me like one?” Keith retorts. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but all things considered...he treated me well.”

“Did he?” Krolia scowls. “Galra cannot survive heats without some assistance, whether from a partner or via...artificial aid.”

Keith sinks back down into bed. “Goodbye,” he says. “We’re not talking about this.”

“Yes, we are,” Krolia insists. “He _gave you sex toys —”_

“And I broke them!” Keith splutters, peeking at her over the edge of the blankets. “I broke his stupid expensive sex toys to piss him off! And — he just bought _more._ For me.” Keith cannot meet her eye. Pandora is asleep; small mercies.

Krolia’s jaw works. “What else.”

“He bought me food,” Keith says miserably. “He made me a cheeseburger and a milkshake…”

 _“HE COOKED FOR YOU DURING YOUR HEAT?!”_ Krolia screeches.

Pandora wakes up.

“Yeah. He did. Do that. Please leave,” Keith begs, studying the ceiling with intense focus. He’s never going to tell her about the bath.

“He _knows,”_ Krolia seethes. “He must know what such a gesture means towards a Galra in heat! How dare he —”

“How would he know,” Keith groans, flopping onto his side. “He doesn’t _know,_ Mom. He’s not Galra. He just didn’t want me to die.”

“Get dressed,” Krolia says, arms folded. “We’re having a word with Mr. Shirogane.” Keith blanches and she exhales forcefully. “Not about the heat.” He relaxes, and she adds, “Not yet, anyway.”

*

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Shiro asks, eyeing Krolia and Keith warily through the kinetic barrier. He looks as groggy as Keith feels, though Keith is pleased to note that the dark circles under his eyes have faded.

“I need you to elaborate on the Garrison’s plans for my son,” Krolia says, arms folded.

Shiro glances at Keith with a kind of dull betrayal. “They were going to implant a hoktril prototype into his brain.”

Keith’s brain strongly dislikes that idea, and he looks at the floor, trying to imagine anything but a cold drill on the back of his neck. “A prototype,” Krolia repeats. “A modified hoktril, then?”

Shiro nods. “They called it Veritas. Latin for ‘truth;’ not very original of them. It removes the brain’s ability to lie, preserves the ability to speak, and of course places the subject under complete control of the device.”

Krolia swears low and vicious.

Keith glances up, cold all over. “Has it been used before?” he whispers.

Shiro looks at him with steady aloofness, nothing like the night before. “In experimental trials only. They intended you to be the first subject of Veritas since its conception, I believe.”

“How did they develop such a device?” Krolia demands. “They would have to be working with the Arus Institute to some extent –”

“And they were,” Shiro sighs. “The Arus project was called Goldilocks. That is all I know about it. The Garrison does not trust me with all the details. I am, after all, only a bounty hunter.”

“You were a brilliant Captain,” Krolia retorts. “Not hired muscle.”

Shiro just shakes his head. “Emphasis on the past tense. Is that all?”

“Yes. Thank you,” Krolia says, inclining her head stiffly and striding away, gesturing for Keith to follow. He hesitates halfway to the door.

“Very well. Oh, and in the future, when you’d like the answers to confidential information...just ask. No alcohol required.” Shiro gives Keith a pointed look, and turns away.

Keith inhales. “That wasn’t –”

“Just go,” Shiro says, and Keith does.

*

“The Garrison were involved with Goldilocks?” Allura demands through gritted teeth as soon as Krolia ends the video call. “And they planned to use that wicked device on Keith?!” Her acrylic nails dig into the lacquered plastic of Pidge’s desk. “Bloody bastards.”

Lance and Hunk exchange looks – if Allura’s swearing, things must be bad.

Pidge nods, bouncing her leg anxiously where she’s perched on the edge of her chair. “Sounds like they didn’t tell Shirogane much of the details. Arus has always been into some sketchy shit, but this…”

“How is this any worse than the original hoktril?” Hunk demands, folding his arms. “The Garrison let them get away with that years ago, human rights violations be damned.”

“It’s generally not human’s rights that are being violated,” Shay murmurs, shaking her head. “Last I checked, something like ninety percent of hoktril victims were Galran.”

“Unfortunately, that statistic sounds right to me,” Veronica sighs. “Hoktril usage was never officially approved for humans. With criminals, though...the Grid always cuts corners. The Garrison always has.”

“And you work for them why?” Pidge says under her breath.

“Well, you need _someone_ on the inside, don’t you?”

Matt coughs. Pidge raises an eyebrow at him. “Something tells me you would’ve quit a while ago if you had any clue this shit was happening,” she says.

He slumps. “Yeah,” Matt says. “You’re right. I had no clue. I knew there was something big and hush-hush; then again, there always is. It just doesn’t usually involve lobotomies.”

“Technically not a lobotomy,” Veronica mutters. “The hoktril attaches to the brain stem and overrides other neuronal connections. There’s no actual severing of brain tissue in the prefrontal lobe, though the hoktril’s tech degrades the tissues over time.”

Lance grimaces. “Let’s be honest, we don’t know how this ‘Veritas’ works at all. Regular hoktrils don’t allow for speech – maybe, like, grunting, but...forcing someone to spill out all their secrets?” He shudders. _“Yeesh,_ no thanks. Whoever developed this tech was a sick, _sick_ fuck.”

“Believe me, they are,” Allura says, her eyes blazing with indignation. “And before any of you ask, I’m sorry, but no, I will not go back to Arus. That place is...evil. To say the least.”

“Then where do we go from here?” Coran asks, more subdued than usual. “Without investigation into Arus, we don’t know anything more about Veritas. We also know next to nothing about this ‘Project VOLTRON,’ and Keith’s mysterious Galra friends do not seem eager to inform us about it further.”

“All we know about the Blades is their name, and I’d bet credits that they’d kill us just for telling that to the wrong person. Or _any_ person outside this room.” Pidge eyes them all despondently. “Anyone have any secret contacts at the Arus Institute?”

Hunk pauses. Shay glances at him. “Er,” Hunk says, “actually, kind of, yes.”

Everyone looks at him. Allura’s eye twitches. “Oh? Who?”

“A sixteen year old Altean girl who keeps getting into clubs?” Hunk squeaks. “Yeah, believe me, I don’t know what her deal is, either.”

“Her name is Romelle,” Shay supplies helpfully. “She gave Hunk a business card.” Hunk holds up said business card. It is pink and very sparkly, with little rhinestones all along the edges. Romelle’s name is written in golden cursive.

“Great,” Lance groans, “she sounds super credible.”

Allura pokes him. “Why did this Altean girl give you her business card?”

“Keith saved her life in the Pink Lion,” Hunk says. “The night he busted that sleazy guy for ketamine – she was one of the girls the guy was targeting. She feels like she owes Keith, and when she found me and Shay at Penumbra, we all thought Keith might be dead, so that’s what we told her.”

Shay studies the glittering card thoughtfully. “We should at least tell her Keith is alive and well. She did seem genuinely upset.”

“Or she’s an Arus spy,” Allura murmurs.

“Only one way to find out,” Lance says. “That card got a number on it?”

Hunk bites his lip. “She said we have to bring it to the Institute.”

Lance cracks his knuckles. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s get those lobotomy deets.”

 _Still not lobotomy,_ Veronica mouths, rolling her eyes.

“Absolutely not,” Allura says. “Lance…”

“We’ll be fine, Princess,” Lance says, and sneaks a kiss into her hair. “Totally fine.”

*

“Anybody else getting serious horror movie vibes?” Lance asks as the smiling doctor leads them down the even whiter corridor, her heels clicking like hooves on the blindingly clean tile.

“No kidding,” Hunk whispers, pressing closer to Shay. “I get why Allura didn’t wanna come back here.”

“It’s very strange,” Shay murmurs, “to see a place so neat and clean when half the world is a smoldering radioactive wasteland.”

 _“Exactly,”_ Lance says with feeling. “It’s creepy how spotless everything is.”

“Germs are dangerous,” the doctor says with her unwavering smile. Lance jumps about three feet, and her smile widens. “So is radiation. Here at the Arus Institute, we endeavor to keep our facilities as safe as possible.” She stops and gestures to a hallway on her left. “Miss Romelle is in Room 16. She doesn’t often have guests; it’s good to see she’s putting herself out there more.”

The doctor waits, and the three of them head down the hall, stopping in front of Room 16. Lance knocks. “Hi, Romelle? We have your sparkly card thing –”

The door flies open, and Romelle stands in the doorway, eyes huge. “I knew you’d come eventually!” she exclaims, and then looks at Lance with a frown. “Wait, who are you?”

“He’s a friend,” Hunk assures, “can we come in? We’ve got some...pretty urgent news.”

“Oh!” Romelle covers her mouth, and glances about. “Please, please come in.” She shuts the door behind them, peers furtively through the peephole, and turns to face them again. “Please, er, make yourselves at home.”

Her room is small, and reminds Lance of a college dorm – simple furniture, girlish decor in the form of a few strings of fairy lights, a pot of artificial flowers, and an impressive collection of model horses in varying states of disrepair.

Lance picks up one of them, a spindly-legged white horse with sad remnants of what might be brown spots. “Where’d you find these little fellas, huh?”

Romelle snatches the horse from his hands. “Don’t touch those!” she scolds, and places the sorry-looking horse back into its place with care. “They were very hard to find. And they’re probably mildly irradiated.”

Lance looks down at his hands. Hunk wordlessly hands him a tiny bottle of sanitizer. Lance would probably be dead by now if he didn’t have Hunk.

Romelle says, “You do know hand sanitizer doesn’t negate radiation, right?”

“I’ll have you know that moisturizer has done a damn good job of keeping the pustules at bay so far, knock on wood —”

Shay clears her throat. “Romelle, dear,” she murmurs, keeping her voice very low, “is this room private?”

Romelle blinks, and her eyes flick to the corner of the room, where a small, nearly camouflaged security camera perches and peers over them. “What is this about?” Romelle whispers.

 _Keith,_ Hunk mouths, and her eyes widen as he adds, _he’s alive._

“Of course!” Romelle squeaks, and hurries towards the door without further explanation. “Follow me!”

They follow her down the hallway, up a flight of stairs, and out onto a startling balcony garden. “Here,” Romelle says as soon as the door thuds shut behind them. She settles on the narrow metal bench under two artificial saplings, and nods to them. “The leaves hide the camera view and there’s no sound feed out here.”

“Are you telling the truth?” Lance asks, and Romelle falters.

“Yes!” she says, glancing between them. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You do live in Arus, and they are your legal guardians,” Shay explains gently.

Romelle frowns, and looks away. “Technically, yes,” she says. “But I’m not very happy with them, lately. They made my little brother sick.”

“Sick?” Hunk asks, looking a bit sick himself. “How?”

“I shouldn’t say…” Romelle curls her fingers into the sleeves of her pale pink hoodie, frown deepening.

“We need your help to help Keith,” Lance says urgently. She looks up. “We need to know if you know anything about something called Veritas.”

She tilts her head. “Doesn’t that mean truth?”

Lance nods. “Yeah. Okay, if that doesn’t ring any bells, how about Goldilocks?”

Romelle pales. “Yes,” she whispers. “Goldilocks is the project that made my brother sick.”

Lance has a sudden and terrible thought. “Romelle,” he asks slowly, “what’s your brother’s name?”

“Bandor,” she says, “why?”

Lance sucks in a sharp breath. So he _was_ the poor kid Allura saw here. “Son of a _bitch —”_

“Lance, she’s a kid; no swearing!” Hunk exclaims.

“Shush, I can handle it — what’s wrong? Do you know Bandor?” Romelle asks.

“We know what they’re using him for,” Lance says. “His quintessence. Right?”

Romelle bites her lip. “They said it wouldn’t hurt him, and it didn’t, not for awhile. But then…”

“And they’re using the quintessence to make non-cogs speak again?” Lance presses.

Romelle winces. “That’s not — Goldilocks is complicated — why do you need to know?”

“Romelle,” Hunk says, calm but firm, “we have reason to believe the Garrison purchased the technology from the Goldilocks experiments and plan to use it on Keith.”

Romelle’s horror pours off of her in waves; she leaps from the bench and covers her mouth with her hands, shaking her head. “No!” she gasps. “They only use it on criminals, the worst Galran ones…”

“Keith is a Galra hybrid,” Hunk says. “Maybe they see him as one of them.”

She shakes her head vehemently. “He isn’t! These criminals are serial killers, gang leaders, the most ruthless of spies...Keith saved my life. He’s a good man, I know it.”

“We think so, too,” Hunk says, “and that’s why —”

 _Incoming Call,_ Romelle’s communicator band (also pink and sparkly) declares. _Urgent._

Romelle blinks, and taps the band. “Hello?”

 _Romelle?_ the man on the other line sounds panicked and out of breath. _Romelle, there’s been an incident with your brother._

*

Bandor is dead.

They don’t find this out until three days later, when Romelle calls the number Hunk gave her and demands to meet them at the Pink Lion Cafe. Allura concedes; only after the place is staffed with all her best bouncers (including Hunk), but she needn’t have worried. Romelle arrives alone and distraught, her eyes puffy and red, with a canvas bag slung over her shoulder and a gray hoodie pulled up to hide her hair and face.

“I left,” she announces to the table. Lance, Hunk, and Shay listen in disbelief. “They killed my brother. I couldn’t stay there...I don’t care if they saved our lives when they took us in during the War. That doesn’t matter anymore. The ends...they don’t justify the means. I don’t think they ever have. I was – _stupid –”_ At this, she breaks down crying, and one of the bouncers informs Allura of the situation as Shay quietly comforts the weeping Altean girl.

Allura invites them into the private room, and sits at the head of the table, eyeing Romelle over her mug of coffee. She gave Romelle a mug of chamomile tea, which she sips nervously, hunched over in her chair and sneaking glances at Alfor’s heir when she isn’t looking.

“Alright,” Allura says, “so you’ve left Arus for a life on the streets?”

Romelle pales, looks down, and nods. “I. I guess so.”

“Allura, c’mon!” Lance exclaims. “She won’t make it a day out there.”

“Mm.” Allura frowns. “It’s more likely that Hira’s people would just snatch her right back up. Which we cannot have. So you’ll be staying with me, Romelle.”

Romelle gapes at her, as does everyone else at the table. “Ma’am?! I couldn’t possibly –”

“First, you will address me as Allura in private, Princess in public,” Allura says. “Secondly, yes, you can. You will be my ward. Our spare bedroom has been in disuse for too long, anyway.”

Romelle opens her mouth, then closes it. “You’re too kind, Princess,” she whispers. “I...thank you.”

“There is a small catch,” Allura says, leaning forward. “Tell us everything you know about Veritas, Goldilocks, and Project VOLTRON.”

Romelle blinks uncertainly. “I can try...oh! The entire Institute was in a panic after Bandor…” She swallows. “They were saying they had to keep it top secret. That, if they didn’t, the Garrison might back out of the deal. I heard Dr. Canlam say that.”

Allura’s eyes narrow. “The Veritas deal,” she murmurs. “If the Garrison knew that the tech behind Goldilocks killed an Altean child...well, they haven’t lost their morals completely, and Arus knows that.”

“Huh,” Lance says, folding his arms. “It sure would be a shame if someone told them.”

“Wouldn’t that put Romelle in danger?” Hunk points out.

“I don’t care!” Romelle says fiercely. “My safety doesn’t matter, if the truth would stop the thing that killed my brother.”

“Besides, she’ll have my protection, and thus the protection of my father.” Allura smiles grimly. “They’ll think twice before trying to get any revenge on Romelle. Besides, the damage will already be done.”

“So, what, we just tell the Garrison what happened with no proof?” Hunk asks.

Romelle slaps a neural chip down on the table. “It’s mine,” she explains. “From that day, the day they told me about Bandor, and showed me…I recorded it all on my visual feed. It’s all there.”

“Veronica could get that onto the desk of someone important, I bet,” Lance says. “Boom. There goes Veritas.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Allura sighs. “Maybe we’re giving them too much credit. Regardless, we still don’t understand the tech behind Veritas. Romelle, do you know anything about that? I know they were harvesting quintessence from your brother, and mixing that with the hoktril’s tech. Beyond that…”

Romelle shakes her head. “They keep the hoktril tech very secret, Princess. But...I do know a few things hidden from the general public. For one thing, non-cogs don’t become comatose vegetables when the hoktril is removed.”

“What do you mean?” Allura asks. Her brow furrows. “Prolonged hoktril implantation degrades neural connections to the point of uselessness…”

“Not quite,” Romelle says triumphantly. “Arus just wants the world to think that. But the non-cogs are still, well, cognizant, after their sentence is over and the hoktril removed. They still have a sense of awareness and some memory, as well as limited speech. Their brains still work, er, sort of.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Lance says. “They release all the post-hoktril non-cogs into the Wastelands anyway. Even if they can still talk and know who they are, and that’s a big if, they’d all be dead of radiation or killed by irradiated creatures within a month or two.”

“Nope,” Romelle insists. “Arus is pretty sure they’re all alive. They’ll never tell the world that, either.”

“Alive?” Shay whispers. “In the Wastelands? Where? How?”

“They don’t know where,” Romelle admits. “If you ask me, I think they’re afraid to go looking. The idea of running into a group of brain-damaged, formerly criminal Galra whose brain damage they caused terrifies them...as it should. I mean, I’d be scared; wouldn’t you? But, they know they’re out there. There’s activity in the Wastelands where there wasn’t before, and a few years back, I know Dr. Canlam was worried about an entire field of solar panels going missing, and then there were spikes in the energy grid right after that.”

“They’re making solar panels work?” Lance exclaims. “Yeah, okay, they’ve gotta have some brain power to figure out how to do that. I don’t even know how to do that.”

“This is certainly intriguing,” Allura says. “But this doesn’t relate to Project VOLTRON. Can you recall ever hearing that name before? Anywhere?”

Romelle pauses, and sips her tea. “Hmm…” She purses her lips. “I think they mentioned it in Goldilocks...yes. Dr. Canlam was whispering about it to the other doctors...I don’t know what it is, but he told them it was the reason they had to work with the Garrison. He said the Galra couldn’t be allowed to keep it. He said, if the Galra used it, there might as well be no point to anything, anymore.”

“Well,” Hunk says. “That’s really cheery.”

“That’s all I heard, I’m sorry,” Romelle sighs. “Whatever it is, they don’t want anyone else knowing about it. If I wasn’t so good at eavesdropping, I’m sure they would have scolded me terribly.”

“Or worse,” Lance mutters.

“It seems we have no other choice but to ask the Blades,” Allura muses.

Romelle tilts her head. “Wait, who?”

Allura winces. “Ah. Oops.”

“We bring ourselves closer and closer to death every day,” Hunk groans, and puts his head in his hands.

*

As expected, Krolia is not pleased that someone else knows about the secret she swore to protect with her life.

“I won’t tell anyone!” Romelle exclaims, cowering before the furious trio of Galra who met them in the crumbling outer Sectors warehouse. Allura stands protectively in front of her, with Lance, Hunk, and Pidge flanking them.

“She is no longer affiliated with the Arus Institute or Commander Hira,” Allura promises. “Your secret is as safe as ever –”

“Wrong,” the tallest and broadest of the Blades growls, pacing in front of the blacked-out windows. Allura can imagine his golden glare. “The Blades’ position is more precarious than it has ever been. In the past, anyone who learned our name was killed immediately. You are all liabilities to us.”

The shortest of the Blades, who has been leaning against the wall, steps into the conversation. “They are friends,” he says, “not liabilities. We need allies, Kolivan. Not more enemies.”

Romelle falters. “I know that voice,” she whispers.

“Keith,” Allura says with a small smile. “You came.”

“Nice costume,” Lance says under his breath. Hunk elbows him and Pidge snickers.

Keith removes his mask and hood, and returns the smile before glaring at Lance and rolling his eyes at Pidge. He looks much better than he did a week ago, though the scar across his cheek is still shocking, made even more striking by the dark shadow of stubble over his jaw. His hair is longer than she remembers, and a few small braids run through it. He has a blade at his hip – the one Shirogane stole from him?

Romelle emits a shrill squeak. “You’re alive! And here!”

Krolia eyes her like a particularly bewildering mouse. “Keith, you know this girl?”

Keith scratches his neck. “We’ve met. Briefly. She snuck into the Pink Lion and Hunk had to drive her home.”

Romelle huffs. “You saved my life!”

"Uh," Keith says. "Sort of. Did that. Kinda."

"You did!" Romelle turns to Krolia. "He totally did. It was amazing."

“Huh,” Krolia says, and pats Keith on the back. “In that case, good job. Do not sneak into clubs, Altean girl.”

“My name is Romelle,” Romelle says. “And it’s not like I’m the only one who does it!”

“Anyway,” Allura cuts in, “Krolia, we need to talk about Project VOLTRON.”

Kolivan turns on her with a snarl. _“How_ do you know of _that?!”_

“I’m sorry,” Krolia says. “I told her. Kolivan, Keith is right. We cannot afford to keep this to ourselves. It has been six years, and we are still unable to access the files. We need help.”

Lance exclaims, “So even you guys don’t know what Project VOLTRON is?”

Kolivan’s gloved hands curl into fists. “It is complicated –”

“Why can’t you access the files?” Pidge demands. “Are they encrypted? Why didn’t you say so sooner; maybe I can figure out –”

“Silence,” Kolivan says with a dismissive hand wave, “you will not be able to decrypt the files. We have tried, as Krolia said, for six years, without success.”

“I’m pretty good,” Pidge says. “Just give me a week, tops.”

“She’s very good,” Keith and Lance say in unison, and scowl. Allura rolls her eyes. Some things never change.

“What is the harm in letting her try?” Krolia asks. “She can stay in our secure location. The data will never leave the area.”

“No, it will not,” Kolivan mutters. “Fine. Katherine Holt, you will come with us. Say goodbye.”

 _“Katherine,”_ Hunk whispers, and wheezes when Pidge elbows him in the gut, then gives him and Lance a quick hug. She nods at Allura, who clasps her shoulder in a brief but heartfelt squeeze.

“We expect Katie Holt to be treated well and given proper accommodations,” Allura says, purposefully indicating with her tone that this is a warning.

“Of course,” Kolivan says, sounding offended. “She will be given the living quarters of one of our most esteemed former operatives.”

“Former?” Romelle asks.

“She died,” Kolivan says. “Thus, the vacant quarters. We have many of them.”

“Oh.”

“Keith, I’m not gonna die, right?” Pidge asks as she crosses the room.

He shakes his head with a slight smile. “More bark than bite. Don’t worry.”

She nods. “Let’s crack this code, then.”

*

Pidge has barely left her quarters all day, and Krolia has been training Acxa in hand-to-hand combat, and Keith is antsy.

That’s his excuse for visiting Shiro again, anyway.

“I’m not lowering the barrier,” Thace warns. “Not even sure I should be letting you in again.”

“Please,” Keith says. “Just for a minute or two.”

“Keith, why,” Thace grumbles. “I’m going to get fired.”

“No, you won’t. Blades don't get fired, they get killed. I’ll be good,” Keith promises, and holds up the copy of _The Hobbit_ he had tucked into his jacket. “I just want to give him another book. That’s it.”

“You get five minutes,” Thace warns, and opens the door.

Shiro looks up from his cell, expression neutral. “You don’t have to keep visiting, you know,” he says. “I’d rather you just leave me here to rot and be done with it.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Keith mutters. The barrier lowers and Shiro eyes him with slightly more interest.

“More alcohol? I told you, you can just interrogate me sober; I’d prefer that,” Shiro says.

“No.” Keith stands in front of the cell, Shiro less than a foot away. “Just this.” He hands the book to Shiro, and Shiro takes it...and then drops it, lightning-quick, his fingers closing around Keith’s wrist, yanking him forwards.

Keith’s surprised shout is knocked into breathless silence by the steel bars and Shiro’s face so, so close to his own and Shiro’s fingers strangling him.

“Don’t be stupid,” Shiro murmurs, leaning in close, trapping Keith against the steel bars with his hand locked around Keith’s neck, thumb digging into his throat until Keith chokes. He shifts on instinct, clawing at the bars and gasping behind sharp fangs as one cheek presses into the cold metal, Shiro’s warm breath feathering across the other.

Shiro remains impassive at the sight of him shifting, but he says, “It’s funny how you think that form will make it easier to defend yourself against me.” He tilts his head as Keith pants, desperately straining for breath. “I killed a Galra hybrid in the arena, once. We were both unarmed. They took away my prosthetic, too – just like this. You remind me a little of him.”

Keith’s vision is spotting black at the corners; he blinks his watering eyes as his chest burns.

“He thought it would be a quick fight,” Shiro sighs, “and it was. I knocked him to the ground and slit his throat with his own claws. He was surprised when he died. He thought he was going to win – it was written all over his poor, pretty face.”

Keith slumps against the bars, lashes fluttering, and Shiro releases him.

Keith sucks in oxygen, eyes wide and windpipe aching, the squeeze of Shiro’s hand a phantom pressure. There are bleeding claw marks raked across Shiro’s forearm and right shoulder that Keith doesn’t even remember making. Unfazed by the wounds, Shiro leans back against the wall. “I could have killed you,” he says. “Don’t forget that.”

“But you didn’t,” Keith rasps, raising his eyes to Shiro’s face. “You didn’t kill me. You wouldn’t have.”

Shiro’s eyes narrow. “For someone I just choked out, you sound awfully sure of that.”

“You had your chances already,” Keith whispers. “And you didn’t take them.”

“You were worth something to me, then,” Shiro says, an edge rising in his voice. “Not anymore.”

“Then why not finish the job?” Keith presses. “Why not snap my neck instead of choke me? Seems a lot more personal than it needs to be.”

Shiro’s lip curls. “I’m not an idiot. If I killed you, your mother wouldn’t hesitate to get the revenge she already wants.”

“And you think she won’t when she sees the handprint-shaped bruise on my neck?” Keith retorts.

Shiro falters, brow lowering. “Is that what this is about, then? Trying to goad me into showing my true colors?”

“Yes,” Keith says, “but your true colors aren’t the ones you think they are. I don’t think you need to be locked up in this cell. The Blades disagree.”

“Then you’re the idiot,” Shiro mutters.

“You don’t believe that,” Keith says. “You just don’t want to believe me.”

Shiro glares at him. “Did you miss the part where I had my hand around your neck and told you how I killed someone just like you?”

“No,” Keith says. “Also didn’t miss the part where you let me live. Again.”

Shiro shakes his head. “You let me live, too. You shouldn’t have.”

Keith frowns. “Don’t tell me what I should do with you when you don’t even know what to do with yourself,” he says, and leaves the room, Shiro’s stricken look following him.

He makes a detour to Pidge’s room, casually covering up his rapidly bruising neck with his hood.

“Hey, Pidge,” Keith says. She looks up from her nest of blankets, pillows, and half-empty chip bags. “Can you hack into the security footage feed for Shiro’s cell?”

Pidge narrows her eyes. “What’s in it for me, Kogane?”

“More chips?” Keith offers hopefully.

“Chips _and_ a chocolate bar,” Pidge says.

Keith grits his teeth. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Then I guess you don’t want that footage deleted after all,” Pidge says, brows raised.

“Okay!” Keith says, because she knows him too well. “Fine, fine, I’ll get you chips and _two_ chocolate bars if you can do something else for me.”

“Let me guess,” Pidge drawls, “something else related to Shiro?”

“Yeah.” Keith sweats. “The Blades are gonna be leaving two nights from now for the Galran solstice festival, Enatlere. On that night, Acxa is going to give you the neural chips of the night patrol at Shiro’s cell. I need you to hack into those to get the cell lock code, then have Acxa send that to me. Oh, and erase all the cell’s security footage. Please.”

Pidge studies him, orange-chip-dust encrusted finger tapping her lips thoughtfully. “Have you asked Acxa yet?”

“She’ll say yes,” Keith says.

“And if I don’t?”

“Two chocolate bars,” Keith reminds her.

Pidge heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, but if he murders you, I told you so.”

*

“You’ve finally lost it,” Acxa says when Keith tells her his plan.

“Maybe,” Keith says. “But you’ll do it?”

“Let me see…you want me to distract and then trap the night patrol at Shiro’s cell, give the neural chips to Pidge so she can hack into their neural chips to get the cell lock code, and give that to you so you can set one of the most dangerous men either of us have ever met free.” Acxa ticks each one off on her fingers. “That right?”

Keith nods. “The rest of the Blades will be out celebrating the solstice.”

Acxa heaves a sigh. “Keith, why are you doing this?”

“Just trust me,” Keith says, because some questions are best left unanswered. “Please?”

“If you die a horrible painful death, I told you so,” Acxa mutters, but she gets the job done.

*

“I’m too sick to go to the Enatlere celebrations,” Keith groans, curling into a ball of feigned agony and coughing into his pillow. Pandora noses at his neck and gives him a dainty, sympathetic lick. Keith pets her clumsily and sighs. “Ugh…”

Krolia pets his hair and frowns. “Alright. Stay in bed; we’ll be back in the morning. Drink the tea Kolivan brought for you.”

Keith cracks an eye open. “He brought tea?” he croaks.

Krolia nods. “Yes. It will help your sore throat. He even found some honey.”

Keith blinks up at her. “Really? Huh.”

“He cares about you very much, gruff though he may be,” Krolia murmurs, touching Keith’s scarred cheek for a moment before standing. “I love you, Keith. Be safe.”

“Happy solstice,” Keith mumbles, and closes his eyes guiltily.

*

That night, Keith disables the kinetic field, and then lifts the cell bars with the code Acxa sent him five minutes after she knocked the patrol out cold and stashed them in a supply closet. Pidge works fast, as he knew she would. Keith grew up with both of the guards; he’ll apologize later.

Then Keith opens the door.

As soon as he steps inside, a solid weight hurtles into him, slamming Keith face-first into the nearest wall. Keith grunts upon impact, face mashed against the concrete and throat twinging in apprehension as warm fingertips ghost over it, then grab Keith’s jaw, forcing it towards Shiro’s face.

 _“You,”_ Shiro says, and frowns, like Keith has just thrown a wrench in his plans instead of freeing him.

“Me,” Keith croaks. Shiro’s heartbeat thuds against his back. Keith shifts, squirms between Shiro and the wall, and Shiro growls, keeping Keith pinned with his sheer bulk.

“Do you have a deathwish?” Shiro demands.

“You still haven’t killed me,” Keith points out. “So, no. I like living. You?”

Shiro shudders, and Keith has a distant and highly disruptive thought that Shiro’s mouth is at a very good angle for biting him.

“You’re fucking crazy,” Shiro hisses, and it sounds like a compliment.

“Takes one to know – _mmph!”_

Shiro’s hand is over his mouth. Keith breathes harshly through his nose. It’s a test, he thinks. Keith could tear Shiro’s fingers open with the fangs growing in his mouth. But he doesn’t. Shiro could shatter Keith’s skull with a solid punch. But he doesn’t.

“What, exactly, was your plan?” Shiro whispers. “Open my cell, saunter on in, and make friends?”

“This doesn’t feel like friends,” Keith says when Shiro’s fingers lift, and shifts back into him with intent. He’s not sure why he does it; he only knows that he likes the feeling of Shiro against him, and the way Shiro’s fingertips brush his lips with something almost like tenderness.

Shiro stills, his breath hitching audibly. “No,” he says, and steps away.

Keith feels strangely exposed in his absence, and looks at him over his shoulder. “You going to kill me, then?”

“I don’t think so,” Shiro says. His brow is furrowed, almost confused.

“Good,” Keith says, and turns around. “Because my plan was to prove you wouldn’t. And you didn’t. So it worked.”

“How many guards are waiting out there to shove me right back into the cell?” Shiro asks.

“None,” Keith says. “Acxa took care of them.”

Shiro’s jaw works. “You’re lying.”

He shrugs. “I’m not. But you can stay in here, if you want. Or you can follow me to a proper guest room, one with a bed and Pandora in it.”

“Wait, you actually…” Shiro squints at him. “Why?”

“You’re not the enemy here,” Keith says. “I’m not sure if you ever were, and we need all the allies we can get. Come on.”

Shiro follows him out, slow and wary, but as Keith promised, the hall is empty. They walk past the metal doors together, keeping pace with each other.

“Where is everyone?” Shiro asks after a dozen doors, a few corners, and several minutes of thick silence.

“Out,” Keith says.

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “So you trust me enough to put your life in my hands and set me free, but not enough to tell me where your secret gang’s gone?”

Keith shakes his head. “We’re not a gang,” he says. “We’re resistance fighters.”

Shiro purses his lips. “What are you fighting?”

“Empire, Warlords, the Garrison, Arus, the Grid,” Keith says. “Depends on the day, I guess.”

“Not doing a very good job, are you?”

Keith shoots him a glare. “And neither are you, bounty hunter, but you don’t see me rubbing that in.”

“On the contrary,” Shiro murmurs, “you rub in my failure to secure your bounty more often than not, lately.”

“Because I think it’s interesting,” Keith says. “Don’t you?”

Shiro frowns. “If you really want to prove how harmless and innocent I am, I’m surprised you’re even giving me my own room. Wouldn’t you rather keep me at the end of your bed like the loyal guard dog you apparently think I am?”

Keith pauses. “Guard dog?”

“Nevermind. Being a guard dog is better than being a prisoner or dead; I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Keith stops. “Is that what you think? That I plan to use you as some kind of bodyguard?”

“You were keen to point out I won’t kill you,” Shiro says, cold and blunt as ever. “And it would be wise to have a bodyguard considering the Garrison still has a bounty on you.”

“You sounds like you _want_ the job,” Keith says. “Although I hadn’t planned on it.” He eyes Shiro. “I don’t trust you enough to make you my bodyguard, anyway. But I distrust lots of people a lot more than I distrust you.”

“Have many other people kidnapped and scarred you?” Shiro asks mildly.

“No, you alone have that honor,” Keith says. “Here’s your room. The code is 5#890.”

“If I am not a prisoner and not a guard dog, then what am I?” Shiro asks as Keith punches in the code, the doors sliding open with a soft hiss.

Keith shrugs. “Whatever you want to be,” he says. “At least until my Mom finds out about this.”

Shiro pauses. “Ah. This was only _your_ plan, then. Should I expect to be back in my cell by morning?”

“No,” Keith sighs. “But give Pandora lots of snuggles, just in case.”

“Mrow?” Pandora says sleepily from the futon, and Shiro is already hurrying towards her.

*

“I cannot believe you,” Krolia seethes, watching the security footage with a vein visibly throbbing in her temple. “You told me you were sick!”

“I gave you tea,” Kolivan grumbles, looking even more betrayed than Krolia.

“It was very good tea, thank you,” Keith tells him earnestly. “Sorry, Mom. And Kolivan.”

Krolia glares harder. “Which room is he in? Someone meddled with all the security footage – do you understand the risk you placed upon the entire facility?”

“We could have dealt with him if he attacked,” Keith mutters. “Which I knew he wouldn’t do.”

“How could you possibly know such a thing,” Krolia snaps. “That man is unpredictable and dangerous, Keith!”

“Yes, but maybe he’s on our side,” Keith insists. “He doesn’t work for the Garrison and he has as much reason as any of us to hate Empire.”

“Or maybe he’s a sleeper agent,” Kolivan growls, “and about to kill us all.”

“Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I knew you would never let me go through with it!” Keith starts forward. “Just let me explain –”

Another Blade peeks in. “Krolia, we’ve discovered the room number. It’s Palavon’s old quarters.”

“Let’s go,” Krolia says, and stalks out.

Keith follows hot on her heels. “Mom, please! You can’t keep him in that cell.”

“And why not?” she asks coolly.

“He was a prisoner of war, Mom! He's suffered plenty already!” Keith hurries into step beside her. “If you need him locked up, at least let him stay in these quarters. But it would be better if he was fighting with us, not trapped in Thaldcyon as a constant enemy.” Krolia’s jaw tightens. “Mom, he thought I was going to make him my bodyguard when I freed him. He _wants_ to help.”

“He wants to get close enough to you to hurt you again, more like,” Kolivan says. “Enough of this, Keith.”

“He would have hurt me already if he wanted to do that!” Keith stops in front of the door as Krolia types in the code, her expression leaving no room for disagreement. Keith slumps in defeat, and the doors slide open.

Shiro is passed out on the futon with Pandora snuggled up to his chest, both of them snoring softly. Keith thinks Shiro might be drooling.

Kolivan clears his throat in obvious embarrassment. “Maybe you have a point,” he mutters to Keith.

Krolia shoots them both a glare and strides over to Shiro. “Wake up!” she orders, and Shiro stirs, blinking wide and alert at her, then Keith and Kolivan. He looks resigned, not surprised at all.

“I’m awake,” Shiro sighs. “Are you taking me back to my cell?”

Krolia falters. “I – yes. I...hm.”

“Mrow?” Pandora says, staring up at Krolia with accusing eyes.

Krolia stares back.

“Ma’am?” Shiro asks, brows drawing together. “Is something wrong…?”

“You will be my son’s bodyguard,” Krolia says slowly.

Shiro does look surprised, then. “Um?”

“Krolia?” Kolivan gasps.

Keith can only stare.

“Either you will be his bodyguard, and take the proper oath of a Galran bodyguard, or you will return to your cell,” Krolia says. “Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Shiro whispers. “Oath?”

“Get up,” Krolia says. Shiro does. Pandora makes a disgruntled noise.

“Krolia!” Kolivan says, and she silences him with a finger.

“You must swear that you will protect Keith Kogane with your life or suffer the consequences, which are death. For you in particular, a prolonged and very unpleasant death. Do you swear it?”

“I swear it,” Shiro says, eyes darting uncertainly to Keith. “I will protect Keith Kogane with my life or suffer the consequence of a prolonged and very unpleasant death.”

“You must swear you will not harm him in any way, or suffer the same consequences, but worse,” Krolia adds.

“Worse than a prolonged and very unpleasant death?” Shiro scrunches up his nose.

“Much worse,” Krolia promises.

Shiro gulps. “Right. I swear that I will not harm Keith in any way.”

“Lastly, you must swear that you will follow any order Keith gives you, as long as it does not endanger the integrity of our organization.”

“Wait,” Keith stammers, but Shiro is already meeting his eyes and saying, “I swear that I will follow any order Keith gives me.”

Krolia exhales. “Then you are officially my son’s bodyguard. Tread lightly, and enjoy your new quarters.” She turns on her heel and marches out, brushing past Keith as she does so, and giving him an inscrutable look of what could be exasperation or approval or both.

Kolivan lingers a moment longer. “Remember your oaths, Shirogane,” he says, and then follows Krolia out.

“Meerow,” Pandora says into the silence, peering at Keith over the rumpled sheets and stretching luxuriously.

“I don’t know what just happened,” Keith says faintly.

Shiro lays back down and pets Pandora’s purring head. “I’m impressed,” he says. “Your plan worked.”

“This wasn’t my –”

“Mhm,” Shiro says, lips curling. “Sure it wasn’t. Should I call you sir, now?”

“Don’t you dare,” Keith growls.

“Whatever you say, sir,” Shiro chuckles. The light catches his eyes and turns them liquid, like the rain on the night he brought Keith home, but softer.

“Please don’t,” Keith says, turning away, and feels Shiro’s soft rain eyes on him, considering.

“Alright,” Shiro says. “I won’t.”

Keith leaves without another word, his heart pounding.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....AAAAND WE'RE BACK! @ college i lived, bitch
> 
> i feel like i played myself bc not even i knew just how slow this burn was gonna be. power move (which is also a power move against myself bc i have to write this shit): they fuck in chapter 1 and then proceed to aggressively pine/be in denial for the next 70000+ words. we suffer together y'all
> 
> someday.....perhaps even soon.....this tension will be resolved...or maybe it'll just get WORSE :| enjoy

Keith watches Shiro watch the rain from the warehouse window. It’s been a week since Krolia made Shiro swear his oaths, and it’s odd, but this new arrangement between them feels almost...normal. Almost. Keith still watches his back constantly, and so do the other Blades. This is the first time they have been alone together as guard and guarded, and even then, Keith has no doubt the Blades have eyes on them somehow.

“You seem to be embracing this bodyguard role,” Keith remarks, chin in palm.

Shiro hums and glances at him. Keith wonders if he will ever get used to the black hair, dyed to give Shiro a subtler look than the striking former silver. It makes him look younger, Keith thinks.

“I’m simply doing as I’m told,” Shiro says, and lifts his right hand, all sleek dark metal and silver accents. “The new arm helps. Besides, my brain was repurposed to serve without my own desires or intentions in mind, and it is...difficult to leave that mentality behind entirely. Sometimes it is easier, to follow orders.”

Keith is suddenly very cold, and some of his dread must show in his expression, because Shiro leans forward with furrowed brows.

“That night,” Keith whispers, “the first night we – I – were you…”

Shiro blinks, and leans back. “Oh,” he says. “No. Pretty sure that’s not programmed. That was – um.” He clears his throat, face pink. “You weren’t forcing, I mean, I wanted...I was, uh, into that, before.”

Keith slowly grins, unable to hide his relief. “Into what? Getting bossed around and fucked?”

Shiro’s eyes narrow, his blush deepening. “Are you mocking me?” he mutters.

“Nope,” Keith chuckles, leaning back on the sofa. “Just agreeing with you. Sometimes.”

Shiro falters. “You – but I thought – _huh.”_ He turns back to the window, but Keith sees the faint curve of his smile. “That’s interesting.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Yeah, think long and hard ‘bout that one.”

Shiro snorts. “Wow. That was bad, Keith.”

“It’s true, though.” Keith isn’t sorry.

Shiro makes a strangled sort of sound and says nothing.

“Do you like the rain?” Keith asks a few minutes later, for once needing to fill the silence.

Shiro nods. “Reminds me of home.”

“Seattle,” Keith says, and Shiro turns to look at him in surprise. “Eva told me.”

“Yes, but…” Shiro tilts his head. “You remembered.”

“I didn’t have much else to do in that room but think,” Keith retorts.

“Ah,” Shiro says. He frowns, gaze sliding back to the rain. “The Grid reminds me of Seattle, sometimes.” He reaches out, pressing his left palm to the glass, fingerprints leaving a ghost of themselves on the cool surface. “Sometimes I can imagine the skyline is the same...except for Puget Sound. That’s missing...the Sound with all its ferries and sail boats and islands and orcas.” His voice is distant, dreamlike.

“I’ve never seen the ocean,” Keith admits.

Shiro glances back. “Never?”

“Lived in a landlocked desert my whole life, and the War didn’t make travel easy,” Keith points out.

Shiro nods. “It’s beautiful,” he says. “The ocean. It’s just...endless. Vast, and barren on the surface, but so full of life beneath the waves. Not that different from the desert...every desert was an ocean, once.”

“I’d like to see the ocean someday,” Keith murmurs.

“Or what’s left of it,” Shiro says, tone flattening. “All the Sound’s orcas starved to death, anyway.” He steps away from the window, rolls his shoulders, and looks down at Keith. “We should go. It’s been fifteen minutes; the rendezvous must be waiting outside.”

“Wait,” Keith says, scrambling to his feet, “the orcas starved to death?”

“Overfishing.” Shiro herds him towards the door. “Orcas mainly ate king salmon, and we took all the salmon for ourselves. Then we sprayed pesticides into the water, and gutted the Endangered Species Act, and they just kept dying, and their calves kept dying if they had any calves at all, and it didn’t stop until there were no orcas left in the Pacific Northwest anymore.”

“Oh,” Keith whispers. “I didn’t know.”

Shiro pauses at the door. “Orcas are matriarchal, and intelligent,” he murmurs. “And as mothers died from malnutrition, leaving their calves to the same fate, the aunts and the sisters and all the other female relatives tried to save the calves, but it was always too late. They would swim with the dead calf between them, trying to keep it on the surface, trying to give it air to breathe, trying for days, weeks.” Shiro bows his head. “They mourned for their dead. They _knew_ they were dying. And we just...let them.”

“Not everyone did,” Keith offers. “There were environmental groups, and wildlife rescues, and –”

“And now there are none,” Shiro says. “Seattle was one of the first US cities to go, did you know that? They took out Boeing and Amazon and Microsoft and four million people with one bomb. 300 kilotons bigger than Nagasaki.”

“I’m sorry, Shiro,” Keith says, because honestly, what do you say to someone who’s lost everything in a nuclear explosion? Maybe Keith should know the answer to this by now, but he doesn’t.

Shiro snorts. “It was called Peacekeeper,” he says. “The ICBM they used. What is it with humans giving weapons of mass destruction silly names? Fat Man. Little Boy. Fucking _Peacekeeper.”_

“I think that’s just the US,” Keith mumbles. “All the other ones were just numbers and letters and things.”

Peacekeeper was made by the US, and decommissioned, then stolen, reactivated, and launched by the Galra a year into the War. It was the third bomb to fall, or the fourth, or the fifth. There were so many.

“No,” Shiro says. “North Korea’s missiles were named _Hwasong._ Mars.”

Keith frowns. “God of war.”

“I think they had the right idea,” Shiro says. “About one thing, anyway.”

North Korea is, as far as anyone knows, little more than a smoking, irradiated crater. Keith likes to imagine there are trees and animals and even people, reclaiming the land they were once oppressed and trapped in, but any kind of optimism is hard to sustain when one looks at the real world around them – barren wastelands, dead orcas, and the Grid.

Shiro holds the door open for him, and follows Keith down the stairs, out a heavy door and into the rain. “Did _all_ the orcas die?” Keith asks as the rain patters over his leather jacket, sliding off in slow wet snail slime trails.

Shiro doesn’t answer until they’re in the back of the waiting spinner, and even then they sit in silence for a long moment. Keith wonders if Shiro is also remembering the last time they were in the back of a spinner together. He shoves the thought away.

“There are still orcas,” Shiro says when the spinner accelerates and rises over the Grid. “Just...not my orcas.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Yours?”

“They weren’t…” Shiro looks away, out the window again. “They didn’t belong to anyone. But they felt like mine, sometimes. My dad would take me out on the water and their fins would break the surface and sometimes their heads and sometimes their entire bodies. Every time I forgot how big they were. How graceful and lovely and…” He trails off, clearing his throat. “Those orcas are dead. There were less than a hundred before the bombs, so. They never really stood a chance.”

“What was your dad like?”

Shiro pauses. “Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to learn all my secrets?”

“Is your dad a secret?” Keith asks.

“My dad is dead,” Shiro says.

“Same,” Keith says, folding his arms. “You’re not special.”

Shiro eyes him in mildly amused disbelief. “My dad was good,” he concedes after a pause. “He liked fishing and biking and hiking and he was good.”

“That’s it?” Keith knows Shiro doesn’t owe him any of the painful details, but he wonders about them anyway.

“I looked like him,” Shiro adds, quieter. “My family said so, at least. My dad always wanted to be an astronaut, but his parents didn’t think that was practical. So he went into business instead.”

“And his son joined the army?”

“His son went to college for astrophysics and became a captain at the Air Force Academy,” Shiro retorts, more than a little defensive.

“I wasn’t mocking you,” Keith says. “I mean, I never even went to college. You’re the smart one, here.”

“There are lots of kinds of smart,” Shiro tells him with surprising earnesty.

“Now you sound like my dad,” Keith says.

Shiro blinks. “I...see.”

“You know what? Nevermind,” Keith mutters, and looks very hard out the window.

“Do I remind you of your father, Keith?” Shiro’s teasing him. Shiro. Is _teasing_ him.

“Oh, fuck off,” Keith says. “And, for the record, no. He was much nicer than you.”

“Ouch. That hurts, Keith.”

“Asshole.”

“Is that any way to speak to your father?”

Keith glares at him. “Shut it. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Shiro says, and smirks for the rest of the car ride.

*

Their mission is simple: find the Empire operative who killed two Blades two days ago, capture him, find out what he knows, and dispose of the evidence.

Kolivan gave them the mission _because_ it’s so simple; an easy vengeance run. They both know the real reason they’re out in the field together is because the Blades are watching them, and testing Shiro’s loyalty. But Keith knows Shiro’s too smart to make any overt moves against them here, if he plans to make any at all.

Quantum Abyss may be his mother’s second home, but the fight club has always unnerved Keith. Krolia has a reputation here, and so, by proxy, so does he. Their resemblance to each other is impossible to ignore, especially when Keith is in his most Galra form, leather jacket collar popped, leaning against the bar as obviously as he can. Unfortunately, they have to attract the Empire agent’s attention, first.

Shiro sits at the bar next to him, drinking iced tea, because bodyguards aren’t allowed to drink alcohol.

“You made that rule up,” Shiro grumbles, swirling his straw around the ice cubes grumpily.

“It’s a good rule,” Keith counters, taking a sip of his own, very alcoholic drink. “And you’d have to follow it even if it wasn’t.”

Shiro says nothing, but sucks on the straw with unnecessary force.

Keith scans the crowd, which scans him in return. People’s eyes linger over him – Quantum Abyss is unaffiliated, officially, but there’s a helluva lot of Galra there. Not so many Galra hybrids. Keith sticks out like a sore thumb.

But none of them come near him. Keith isn’t sure why, until he glances back at Shiro and sees him glaring at the crowd unsubtly, iced tea forgotten.

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Nobody is gonna talk to us if you’re looming over my shoulder.”

“I’m sitting down,” Shiro says.

“Just stay here,” Keith sighs, picking up his drink.

Shiro leans forward. “Where are you going?”

“Just stay,” Keith repeats, and presses forward into the crowd. The booming music does nothing to cover the grunts and cheers from the fighting ring. Keith can’t see the fighters, and doesn’t much care to. The sick thud of fists meeting flesh echoes like a drumbeat in his head, and once he’s put enough distance between himself and the bar, he leans against the wall, tilting his head back towards the bare rafters and purple strobes.

Bourbon sours on his tongue when another body hits the wall beside him, leaning too close to be casual. “You’re Entropy’s kid,” the Galra says. “The mutt.”

The Galra’s easily a head taller than Keith and twice as broad, smooth lavender skin offset by darker purple fur at his shoulders and jawline. His ears resemble a bat’s, and his lower canines jut over his upper lip like boar tusks. He’s in all black, a shirt with cut-off sleeves and jeans with ripped knees. There’s a holster at his hip, handgun on display. His arms and neck are tatted up in dark tribal patterns, and numerous piercings glint in the low lights.

“Maybe,” Keith says. “Who’s asking?”

Yellow eyes narrow. “What’s with the bodyguard?”

“Just in case.”

“In case someone goes after Entropy’s kid? Not likely,” the Galra scoffs.

“Can’t trust anyone too easily, these days,” Keith counters.

“Humans, especially.”

“So that’s your problem? Could’ve just said so.”

The Galra’s lip curls. “You’re half human, eh? Never understood how a human got a leg over Entropy –”

“Don’t,” Keith warns, gritting his teeth.

“Or what? You gonna defend mommy’s honor, mutt?” The Galra is goading him on, squaring his shoulders, trying to intimidate Keith into a fight or flight. Keith won’t give him either. Instead, he steps into the Galra’s space, grin dangerous. The Galra’s grin falls off his face like a stone when Keith lays a light hand over his chest.

“No,” Keith says. “I ain’t here for her.” He presses his body flush to the Galra’s, and yellow eyes widen, the cloying tang of beer tickling Keith’s nose.

“Uh –” the Galra glances wildly around, but the crowd covers them, swirling around them in an inescapable miasma of bodies.

Keith’s switchblade finds the soft bits between the Galra’s thighs, and he goes very still. “I’m looking for someone,” Keith says sweetly, and when the Galra gulps, he presses the blade a little harder. Denim is only so thick.

“Okay, okay!” the Galra yelps, hands held up in surrender. “Wh-who?”

“Empire agent,” Keith says. “He was here the last two nights. Likes gin. Has a snake tattoo. Seen him?”

“Y-you’re looking for Gamma,” the Galra whimpers, “he’s here, big guy with a biker jacket, saw him by the ring, just a few minutes ago –”

“Thanks,” Keith says. “This stays between you and me, got it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Keith takes a step back. The Galra turns on his heel and walks away as fast as possible, visibly shaking. Keith sheathes his blade with a flick of his wrist and returns to the bar, warmth thrumming under his skin. It’s adrenaline, but whether to fight or fuck, he isn’t sure. Maybe he’ll find that Galra, when this is over. He would’ve fucked Keith; Keith could smell it on him from a mile away.

Shiro is watching, his tea untouched.

“Didn’t know you liked dancing.” His voice is flat, or maybe Keith just wants it to be.

Keith shakes his head. “Not dancing,” he says. “I had a knife to his dick.”

“Ah,” Shiro says. “That sounds more like you.”

“Our guy is named Gamma,” Keith says. “Ring any bells?”

To his surprise, Shiro’s gaze flickers with recognition. “Think so,” Shiro mutters. _“Damn.”_

“What?” Keith sits down next to him. “You know him? He know you?”

Shiro shakes his head. “He’s a grunt,” Shiro says. “Wouldn’t recognize me.”

“But…?”

“Nothing,” Shiro says. “Where is he?”

“By the ring.”

“Of course he is.” Shiro stands up. “Let’s go, then.”

Keith studies him. Shiro’s expression is blank and closed. “Fine,” he says. “Stay behind me.”

Shiro nods, and follows him through the crowd. Eyes follow them, but Keith holds his head high, and keeps tabs on Shiro’s presence at his back. Is he an idiot to find it comforting? Keith has worked so many jobs alone, he’s forgotten what it’s like to have a partner.

No. Not a partner. Shiro’s closer to a servant than a partner. Still. It’s someone else.

“That’s him,” Shiro says too close to Keith’s ear. The pointed tip flicks away from his breath in irritation, and Shiro adds, “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” Keith goes up on his tiptoes – Galra are so goddamn _tall._

“Need a boost?” Shiro chuckles.

“Fuck off,” Keith warns. “That one? In the ugly biker jacket?”

“Yeah. It is ugly, isn’t it? Too many zippers.”

“Quiet.”

Shiro closes his mouth.

“Guess I could hold a knife to his dick, too,” Keith muses.

“No,” Shiro says.

Keith turns sharply. “What was that?”

“You shouldn’t get that close to him,” Shiro mutters.

“Don’t think I asked you.”

Shiro’s brows furrow. “He likes hybrids,” Shiro says, and Keith’s blood runs cold.

“Excuse me?”

“Not all of the prisoners were human.” Shiro frowns. “He went down to the cells a lot. The hybrid sections.”

Keith’s throat is full of cotton. “You – saw him…”

“Heard,” Shiro says. “Be careful for now. We can cut off his dick later.”

Keith swallows. “We can use that,” he says. _“I_ can use that.”

Shiro’s lips part. “Keith? Wait –”

“Stay here until I need you,” Keith says. “That’s an order. When you see us leave, go to the back door, and find me in the alley.”

Shiro stiffens. _“Sir,”_ he grits out, murder in his eyes.

Keith ignores him and steps away, weaving through the teeming crowd, following the yells around the ring and the electronic ping of exchanged credits. Gamma watches the fighters in the ring with open hunger, occasionally lifting his fist to cheer on whichever opponent he’s placed his bets on. His stance is relaxed; he comes here often.

There’s a scar peeking out from under his rumpled collar. Fresh? Keith edges closer, and Gamma turns and sees him.

It’s alarming how quickly a charming smile smooths away his expression of open bloodlust. Keith distrusts him viscerally. “Well,” Gamma drawls, “hello. You don’t look like you’re here for the fight.”

“Nah,” Keith says, tilting his head. “Afraid not.”

“Hmm,” Gamma says, turning away from the ring, blocking out the lights. “Have we met before?”

Keith blinks, slow. “Afraid not,” he repeats. “But we have now. What’re you gonna do about it?”

Gamma chuckles in surprise and delight, and steps into Keith’s space. “Depends,” he says. “You look like you have something in mind.”

“I do,” Keith says. “But not here.”

Gamma raises an eyebrow.

“Out back,” Keith says, and shifts until the curve of his spine is illuminated under the strobes, unavoidably drawing the eye. “Long as you don’t mind getting a little messy.”

“Oh,” Gamma says, voice dropping, “I don’t mind. Lead the way.”

Keith grabs his hand and tugs him away from the ring, the Galra’s breath hot on the back of his neck. He thinks – hopes – he sees Shiro following in his peripherals.

The noise of the fight club fades into the distance as Keith’s shoulder hits the metal door, and he shoves against it until it swings open, sending the two of them stumbling out into the dark alley. Purple light spills across the concrete, and three beady-eyed rats freeze in the overflowing Dumpster before leaping off the side, chittering away into the night. Gamma’s hand in Keith’s shifts up to grasp his wrist, claws digging in through soft leather. Keith shifts away from the door; headed for the alcove near the Dumpster, and Gamma goes with a thin smile. “This way, no one will see us,” Keith whispers, and Gamma chuckles again, backing Keith into the bricks.

Keith counts the seconds. He gets to ten when Gamma’s body meets his own, then twenty when curved claws trace the line of his jaw. Keith tilts his head up, obliging for now, and looks at him through his lashes. Gamma inhales, and his growl trembles in the air between them.

“It’s a shame,” he murmurs, “that you mutts are looked down upon. Why would anyone,” his claws dig into the scar on Keith’s face, “waste something so pretty?”

“Wait,” Keith gasps, letting the Galra smell his fear in a quick bloom of bitter pheromones, and golden eyes flash. Shiro was right; it’s what Gamma wanted from him all along.

“No,” Gamma says, and leans in.

The back door bangs open and Keith lunges, slashing his unsheathed claws across Gamma’s face, drawing a hot spatter of blood and a howl of rage. He ducks away from the answering blow, a moment too late. Gamma’s huge fist sends Keith to his knees, shoulder aching and chest winded, and Keith reaches for his knife as Gamma reels back to hit him again.

Shiro beats him to it, and Keith shields his eyes as a blinding burst of magenta light sears through the darkness, and Gamma is directly in its path. The Galra crumples to the concrete, a smoking hole burnt straight through his jacket, and Keith scrambles to his feet, whirling on Shiro. “We needed him alive –!”

Shiro is breathing hard, eyes slits, right hand still activated, face twisted in cold fury. “He’s alive,” Shiro says. He doesn’t look at Keith.

Keith frowns down at Gamma and kicks him. The Galra wheezes, groaning and rolling onto his side, and Keith kicks him again, until he stops moving, eyeing them in hazy loathing. “Get the spinner,” Keith says.

Shiro exhales. “But –”

“Now.”

Shiro deactivates the hand and silently walks out to the street where they parked.

Gamma tries to grab for Keith’s ankle and Keith stomps on his fingers with the hard heel of his boot. He muffles the Galra’s scream of pain with the kerchief around his neck, gagging him and standing over his broken body. “I know who you are,” Keith says, calm and quiet. “I know what you’ve done, in the cells of that Galra war prison. Was it worth it, do you think?”

The fear in the air isn’t Keith’s, now, and this fear is very real.

“No,” Keith sighs, shaking his head, “I didn’t think so, Gamma.”

*

They bring Gamma to the designated warehouse. It’s a small place that reeks of gasoline and mildew, decorated with rusted sheet metal and rotting plywood. No one will look for them, here. Gamma must know this, because he doesn’t even try to call for help, even after Keith rips the gag out once they have him tied to a chair.

Gamma meets Shiro’s eyes and spits blood at his feet. “117-9875,” he says. _“Champion._ I remember you.”

Shiro says nothing, but his jaw works.

Gamma scoffs. “Right. Forgot, he’s a non-cog. Got a new master now, eh?”

Tension pours off of Shiro in waves. Keith looks at him, then at Gamma, and unsheathes his knife – not the switchblade, his Marmora blade – and lifts it. Gamma’s eyes trace the black shine uncertainly. “Shiro,” Keith says, “wait outside.”

Shiro looks at him, genuinely startled. “What?”

“He _talks?!”_ Gamma demands, leaning forward as much as he’s able.

Keith backhands him across the face and looks at Shiro again. “Wait outside,” Keith says. “Please. I won’t be long, here.”

Shiro gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. “This is my job,” he whispers.

“Not anymore,” Keith says. “Go.”

Shiro hesitates, then turns stiffly on his heel and walks out, hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Not very obedient, is he?” Gamma says through the blood dripping through his teeth.

“Not as obedient as you’ll be when I’m done with you,” Keith retorts, cracking his knuckles. “I’m gonna ask nicely once. What do you know about the Blade of Marmora?”

Gamma blinks in confusion. “The wha’ now?”

“You killed two Galra the other night,” Keith continues, circling the chair in slow, clicking steps. “Why?”

Gamma’s split lip quirks. “They were in my way. Why, friends of yours?”

“Wrong answer,” Keith says, and breaks both his thumbs.

*

It takes longer than Keith would have liked, but to his relief, Shiro doesn’t come in at any point to check on his progress. By the time he’s done, his jacket is ruined, he’s fairly certain there’s blood drying in his hair, and his blade is red up to the hilt.

Shiro is leaning against the far wall in the dim hallway, and his head jerks up when the door opens. Silence stretches between them as Shiro stares at the mess Keith’s made. Far off, a forever-leaking faucet drips. “He didn’t know anything,” Keith says, wiping his blade off on his jacket and sheathing it. “But someone in the higher-ups does. Told him they were enemy agents with access to top-priority intel.”

“Project VOLTRON,” Shiro says. They look at each other dully. Pidge is no closer to cracking the encrypted data than she was a week ago.

“He tortured them; they didn’t tell him anything,” Keith adds. “Knowledge or death. Mostly death.”

“Is it done?” Shiro asks, nodding to the closed door behind Keith.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “Empire will find him in the morning, I set his neural chip to activate at dawn.”

Shiro’s gaze rakes over him again. “You didn’t make it quick.”

“No,” Keith says. “I’ll be impressed if Empire recognizes their own operative.”

“Are you,” Shiro says, and stops.

“Am I...?”

“We should leave,” Shiro says. “Before your mother finds out you did the dirty work.”

“She won’t,” Keith says.

“I should have done it,” Shiro says as they step out of the warehouse and into the sleeting rain, faintly acidic on their skin. “It’s what I’m here for, Keith. It’s why your mother wanted me here.”

“You’re here to protect me,” Keith says. “Not to oversee torture.”

“Get in the car,” Shiro says, and opens the spinner door for him.

“It’s fine,” Keith whispers, hiding his shaking hands in his jacket. “I’m fine.”

“Get in, Keith,” Shiro says, in a different voice, and nudges him forward.

“Okay,” Keith sighs, and goes.

*

Showering with Shiro is strange but not unpleasant.

He knocks lightly against the metal partition separating their cubicles. “You still alive in there? You got quiet.”

There’s a sound like a wet hand on wet skin, or maybe hair, sweeping off water that cascades loudly down to the tile and flows down the shared drain. “Yes,” Shiro says, and knocks back twice. “Got all the blood off, yet?”

Keith wrinkles his nose and works a third handful of shampoo into his hair. “No,” he mutters. “It won’t get out of my hair.”

“At least your hair is black,” Shiro says. “How’s your shoulder?”

Keith almost drops the shampoo bottle. “Huh?”

Water falls. “Where you got hit.” _Where he hit you._

Keith looks down. There’s an angry red-yellow bruise covering most of his left shoulder, and it aches something fierce, stinging where the shower spray makes contact. “It’s okay,” Keith says. “I’ve had worse.”

“Not really an answer.”

“You’re my bodyguard,” Keith says. “Not my doctor.”

“Your shoulder is attached to your body,” Shiro says. “Therefore, I guard it.”

Keith’s brows draw together. “It hurts,” he admits begrudgingly. “But it’ll heal.”

“Unlike Gamma.”

Keith scowls at the tiles. “Don’t tell me you disapprove.”

He hears Shiro’s inhale. “No,” Shiro says. “No, he deserved it...whatever you did.”

“I didn’t cut his dick off,” Keith adds. “Didn’t wanna get anywhere near it, honestly.”

Shiro’s laugh is short and derisive. “He won’t be using it anymore, anyway.”

Keith pauses. “Shiro, can I ask you something?”

“Depends. Is it about dicks, dead orcas, or dead fathers?”

“None of the above.” Keith swallows. “When you were – in the Galra prison. You couldn’t...I mean, you had to do everything they said. Right?”

“That is how hoktrils work,” Shiro mutters, “yes. I think I would prefer the dead father questions.”

“Sorry, I just – Gamma _knew_ you.” Through the thin gap in the partition, he sees a movement, a jolt; then a stillness. “Shiro, did...he ever visit you?”

There is a dull thud. Keith jumps, but Shiro must be slumped against the wall, because there is no exclamation of pain from a fall, and Shiro’s feet are visible under the gap, toes curling against the tile.

“Not in the way you’re implying.” Shiro’s voice is corrugated iron and Keith flinches. “He knew me the way all the others knew me. They were afraid to touch me. I was like – a beast, a rabid dog. The hoktril they used on me was not meant for meekness, remember. Just...rage. Violence. Men like Gamma prefer helpless victims, not madmen eager for more blood.”

Keith washes the shampoo out of his hair, white running down his back and frothing around his feet. “I’m sorry,” Keith says. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“But you did. Why?” Shiro turns his water off, and suddenly Keith’s single shower is deafening. “Trying to find an explanation for why I am the way I am? I wasn’t raped, Keith.”

Keith stays huddled under the spray. “You were,” he says. “In a way. They took your mind away, your agency, your –”

“Yes, thank you, I get the idea,” Shiro interrupts. Without the cover of the water, he sounds scared.

“I’m sorry,” Keith says again. “I’m bad at this.”

Shiro snorts. “Talking?”

“Helping.” Keith scrubs at the dry blood on his forearm until the skin comes away raw; he can’t tell if the red in his tattoo is blood or not. “Trying to, anyway.”

“By telling me I was raped. Good job.”

Keith flinches. “Forget it.”

“You think I haven’t tried?”

“I don’t think you’ve talked about it,” Keith says. “To anyone.” He turns his shower off.

“So I should talk to you?” Shiro pads across the tile, towel rustling. Keith curses himself for not bringing a towel into his cubicle. Idiot.

“I don’t – no.” Keith coughs. “No, you probably shouldn’t. But I think all the psychologists are dead, so...”

Shiro’s laughter is unexpected and loud, echoing through the showers, empty save for the two of them. God, it must be 3 AM by now. Keith isn’t tired, though, especially not when Shiro’s footsteps approach. Keith is debating how fast he’d have to move to grab his bloodied jacket to cover himself before Shiro sees him, when a familiar metal hand offers a fluffy white towel around the edge of the cubicle.

“Think you forgot this,” Shiro says. Keith thinks he’s still laughing.

Keith snatches it. “Right,” he says, wrapping it very tight around his hips. “Thanks. A lot. For that.”

Really, Keith doesn’t know why he even tried to prepare himself for the sight of Shiro in a towel. It’s just not something he can ever see without inhaling his own tongue.

“You’re turning red,” Shiro says, and tilts his head, and Keith is pretty certain he flexes his pectorals on purpose, because he is a bastard.

“Fuck off,” Keith says, and marches past him. “I’m going to bed, like, now.”

“You sleep naked?”

Keith almost trips over his feet. _“What_ – do _you?”_

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Shiro retorts. “Let me see your shoulder, first.”

Keith stops halfway to the door. “Didn’t you just see it?”

“Keith.”

Keith turns, and Shiro is _right there,_ bringing adrenaline boiling to the surface again, heart pounding and breath shallowing; to fight or to fuck, that is the question.

God, Keith is screwed. Or wishes he was.

“That doesn’t look good,” Shiro says, and reaches out, metal fingertips ghosting over the angry red bruise a few inches from Keith’s bicep. Keith doesn’t dare move. “You should put something on it,” Shiro murmurs, “a salve, to ease the swelling –” He stops.

Keith, for some reason, has just grabbed his wrist.

Shiro blinks down at him, and if Keith isn’t mistaken, his face is reddening now, too. “Yes?”

“Don’t touch me,” Keith says, and lets go. These towels are too fucking thin.

Shiro takes a step back. “Ah,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Keith swallows and shakes his head. “Salve would be nice,” he whispers. 

Shiro’s brow creases. “I think,” he says slowly, “maybe you should keep Pandora, tonight.”

Keith’s heart skips a beat. “She’s your cat, I –”

“I’ll bring salve and Pandora to your room,” Shiro says, ignoring him. “Get to bed. You look like Hell.” He taps his forehead and nods at Keith. “And you got some blood, there.”

“Right,” Keith croaks in a voice like sandpaper. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Shiro says, and neither of them do.

*

Nobody wakes Keith up for the briefing the next morning. Instead, he wakes up to Pandora purring in the crook of his arm, and Shiro standing at the end of his cot, reshelving _The Chronicles of Narnia._

Keith sits up slowly so as not to dislodge the cat. “Don’t think you’re allowed in here,” he mutters, rubbing his knuckles over his eyes.

“Your mother let me in,” Shiro says, glancing at him and sliding _The Magician’s Nephew_ smoothly into place. “Trust exercises, I suppose. And I’m here to tell you we’re going to a party. Yay.”

Keith frowns. “A _party?_ Is now really the time for that?”

Shiro shrugs. “Pidge can’t decrypt the files. But, she has apparently recognized the cryptosystem – it’s similar to others she’s encountered in the past. Now, here’s the interesting part: it’s Altean.”

“So it _is_ from the Arus Institute.”

Shiro shakes his head. “Not Arus. Pidge swears the cryptosystem looks like one of Alfor’s.”

Keith stiffens. “Has Allura got anything to say about this?”

“Claims she doesn’t know anything, and Pidge agrees it's just a hunch, nothing concrete,” Shiro replies, “but here’s where the party comes in. Allura thinks that the cryptographic keys may be found in Event Horizon, Alfor’s club. As it happens, Alfor is throwing some kind of gala this week. She didn’t give me details, which means you and I will likely be serving as a diversion from the rest of the group.”

“Which is?”

“Anyone who isn’t obviously Galra,” Shiro says. “You, me, Allura, Coran, Romelle, Lance, Hunk, Pidge, Acxa. And Kolivan, who will be disguised as Allura’s bodyguard. He wanted at least one other Blade on the inside. We will all be disguised as Alteans.”

Keith is about to tell him that this is a ridiculous plan when Pandora lets out a long, pathetic mew, and both of them turn their attention to her at once. She makes the sound again, and Keith gets out of bed, leaning over her as she curls into a small, uncomfortable-looking ball.

Shiro kneels down next to the bed and reaches out to pet her; she bites at him when he touches her fur and he flinches back.

“Is she hurt?” Keith asks, peering at the trembling feline, who looks at them both from flat eyes.

“I don’t know,” Shiro murmurs, and scoops her up in his arms, getting clawed for his trouble. She goes still and unhappy in his grasp, ears pinned back, and makes the sound again. “She isn’t spayed, so maybe…” But he doesn’t look convinced.

“We don’t have any vets here, but maybe Ulaz could take a look?” Keith suggests.

“Maybe.” Shiro bites his lip as Pandora closes her eyes and relaxes a little against his chest. “She may just need rest.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Keith says hastily, and Shiro looks at him. “I mean, I just, slept here, and I thought she was okay, she seemed fine –”

“We’ve been over this,” Shiro says, tilting his head. “Animals are exempt from violence in both of our books. Yes?”

“Yes,” Keith mutters. “Of course. I wouldn’t – I hope she’s okay, Shiro. I know she...means a lot to you.”

Shiro’s eyes soften, and he looks down at her. “She does,” he says. He hesitates. “I think she likes it better here than in my apartment. More space. More people. She deserves a place like this.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re here,” Keith says. “Isn’t it?”

“Mm.” Shiro nods to the bookshelf. “Thank you for the books. They were good. Terrible ending, though.”

“Forgot about that.” Keith makes a face. “They all die, don’t they.”

“Yes.” Shiro purses his lips. “They don’t dwell on it much, though, do they?”

“Why would they?” Keith asks. “They’re in Heaven with Aslan.”

“I’d prefer Heaven with Aragorn, personally,” Shiro counters.

“What a surprise.”

Shiro hesitates. His cheeks are pink. “You know,” he says, “you remind me a little of Ara –”

Pandora _wails._

“Oh, shit,” Keith exclaims, furiously shoving Shiro’s previous statement out of his mind, “is she okay?!”

“I’d better go,” Shiro says, and marches out of the room, holding his writhing cat to his chest.

 _“Aragorn,”_ Keith repeats when he’s gone, and puts his head in his hands. 

*

Pandora apparently calms down as soon as she’s back in Shiro’s room, though she’s more lethargic than usual. Keith is just glad Shiro is watching her closely; that way he doesn’t have time to tell Keith he reminds Shiro of fucking Aragorn.

Unfortunately, Keith is not spared from party preparation. Specifically, costumes at the Holt garage.

“We’ve got to look _lavish,”_ Lance stresses, draping a heavy cloak over Keith’s shoulders which he shrugs away in irritation. “Nobody will believe we’re Alteans if we dress like plebs.”

 _“Plebs,”_ Acxa repeats. She turns to Allura. “Ma’am, no offense, but you could do so much better.”

Lance glares at Acxa and Allura rolls her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says airily, and wraps a silk scarf around Romelle’s neck. Romelle beams and twirls the pink silk around her pinky. “Lance is right. We must all be looking our best. I can’t be seen with a bunch of unknown plebeian Alteans.”

Acxa gives Keith a look of faint disgust. _They’re always like this,_ Keith mouths back.

“So, the goal is to look like unknown patrician Alteans?” Pidge mutters.

“What’s a patrician? The goal is to look _classy,”_ Lance says. “Like me and Allura all the time.”

“Right,” Keith and Hunk deadpan in unison.

“A patrician was someone in the ruling class families of Ancient Rome,” Romelle informs Lance brightly.

“Smarty pants,” Lance says, and gives her an approving grin which she returns.

“Keith, you’d look good in red,” Allura says, and throws a brocade silk jacket the color of a fire engine at him.

He catches it with a disgruntled sound. “Thought we were supposed to blend in,” he grumbles.

“Believe me,” Allura retorts, “you will. Nobody will be looking at you. They might look at Shiro, though.”

“Hey,” Keith objects, and looks at the jacket again, reconsidering. “What color is Shiro wearing?”

“Black,” Lance says. “Unless you can think of something else you’d rather see him in.”

Keith flips him off. “I wanna wear black.”

“You get a black shirt and slacks,” Allura retorts. “But you’re wearing that jacket.”

Keith sighs and slips on the jacket, walking over to the mirror and turning about in front of it. Lance sidles over and adjusts it for him, whistling. “Now we’re talkin’, hot stuff,” Lance chuckles. “Allura was right, as always. You look great.”

“Shut up,” Keith says, but pulls the jacket a little tighter. “You think so?”

“Bet Shiro will think so, too,” Hunk says under his breath. Everyone looks at him, except for Keith, who glares.

“Let’s hope not,” Pidge mutters, tossing aside a lime green gown which Allura immediately grabs and puts back neatly on its hanger. “I still don’t trust him.”

“Nobody does,” Hunk assures her. Keith frowns and takes off the jacket. “Least of all Keith, I mean, c’mon, he was Shiro’s prisoner for like two weeks –”

“None of us are moral paragons,” Acxa mutters, studying her purple nails.

“Uh, yeah, but we don’t keep each other captive in guest bedrooms for bounty money,” Lance retorts. “I cheat at poker. I don’t _kidnap_ people, especially not after sleeping with them.”

Everyone coughs and avoids looking at Keith, except for Acxa, who narrows her eyes at him.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Keith snaps. “What’s done is done. He’s not doing that anymore.”

“Yeah, now he’s your bodyguard, which makes no sense!” Hunk exclaims. “I mean, he literally _harmed_ your _body!_ What is your mom thinking?”

“It’s just a scar, and it wasn’t unwarranted,” Keith mutters. “Can we change the subject?”

“He has a cute cat,” Pidge offers. Then she adds, “Did he steal her from a past victim and cut her leg off?”

Keith grits his teeth. “No, _Katie,”_ he growls, “he saved her from a litter of dead kittens in the Wasteland and got her leg amputated to save her life from cancer, _actually.”_

“Wait,” Hunk squeaks, “really?”

“Huh,” Lance says. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

“He isn’t a sadist,” Keith sighs, suddenly very tired. “Never said he was a good person, but neither am I. We’ve all got our reasons.”

“Keith is right,” Allura says quietly, setting aside a glittering silver gown. “We’re hardly in a position to make moral judgments about people like Shiro. Not when my own father may be behind the single most important piece of intel in the Grid, and I hadn’t the slightest idea about it.” She frowns. “Besides, we need more allies, not more enemies. Shiro and Keith’s mission was a success – so far, he’s proving himself useful.”

Keith prickles at the word _useful,_ but says nothing. The rest of the group sobers, and they try on their outfits more subdued than before.

When Allura gently kicks them all out an hour later, Acxa catches Keith outside, on their way back to the Blade spinner.

“You really believe what you said,” Acxa murmurs. “About Shirogane.”

Keith eyes her and opens the spinner door. “That he isn’t a sadist? Yeah. It’s true.”

“How can you be so sure? So sure he won’t betray you, after everything?”

“He would’ve done it already,” Keith says. “I think,” he amends. “I could be wrong. But I doubt it.”

Her eyes gleam briefly gold under the fluorescent street lamp. “You like him.”

“No,” Keith says, more in reflex than protest.

“You fucked him,” Acxa adds, quieter.

He elbows her. “We’re not having this conversation.”

“Have you fucked him since then?”

Keith gets in, slams the spinner door, and waits, fuming, in the driver’s seat while she calmly walks around and sits in shotgun, tapping her nails against the window, _click, click, click._

“You haven’t,” she says after ten clicks, “but you want to.”

Keith leans back in his chair, head thudding against the seat cushion. “Dunno. Seems like a bad idea, don’t it?”

“Bad ideas never stopped you before, Keith,” she says, and he can’t argue with that.

“A _really_ bad idea,” he corrects, weakly. “The others are right, aren’t they? I shouldn’t want to. Shouldn’t want him.”

“Hard to control that kind of thing,” Acxa murmurs.

“I woke up naked and handcuffed to a bed by him,” Keith says. “Shouldn’t I be angrier?”

“With him?” Acxa sighs. “I don’t know, Keith. You’ve been angry all your life. The things, or the people, who _don’t_ make you angry...I think they’re important. I think you should keep them.”

“He doesn’t make me angry,” Keith admits, bowing his head to stare at the steering wheel. “He makes me sad.”

“You pity him?”

“No.” Keith sighs in frustration. “He just makes me _sad.”_

She watches him. “You want to make him less sad.”

“I want him to know he’s better than he thinks he is,” Keith says, and it feels like a weight is lifted off of him at the words.

“You should, then,” Acxa whispers. “Keith, tell him that.”

Keith snorts and turns the key in the engine. “How did you do it?” he asks. “Fuck me, I mean, and still be able to see me as a target afterwards?”

Acxa shakes her head. “Well,” she muses, “you sure didn’t make it easy.”

“Did I make it _hard,”_ Keith says under his breath, and grunts on a laugh when she kicks his shin.

“You did,” Acxa retorts. “I…” She sighs. “My mission was to watch you, and take you out if I needed to, but...even after that first night, I don’t know. I don’t think one night stands with you are ever really just that, Keith.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You put so much of yourself into it,” she says, and pauses. “Don’t make a dick joke.”

“Think you just made it for me. Thanks?”

Acxa rolls her eyes. “The point is, you may be some kind of enigma going about your day to day life, but in bed? You’re an open book, albeit a combative one.”

“Not always,” Keith mumbles, slouching down. “I can be nice.”

“You seriously trying to tell me you were _nice_ with Shirogane?”

“Sort of,” Keith says, turning to look out the window. The sky has taken on the dirty brown hue of an approaching dust storm. “I wanted to be, anyway. If we had more time, I would've been. I liked him, you know? I really…”

“You wouldn’t have fallen into his trap if you hadn’t liked him, a lot,” Acxa whispers. “I know.”

“I just wonder if he still thinks of me as a target,” Keith says. “That’s all.”

“Him choosing not to hand you over to the Garrison and turn himself in didn’t give you that answer already?”

Keith hits the gas. “I don’t know if that had anything to do with me,” he admits as they roar down the street and into the rolling dust.

*

“No signs of injury,” Ulaz declares, removing the stethoscope from Pandora’s tiny chest and taking a step back. “She isn’t in estrus, either. Keep a close eye on her, and I suppose if her condition changes again, I can do an X-ray.”

“Thank you,” Shiro says, stepping up to the examination table and giving Pandora a scratch on the chin. She mews and looks up at him, whiskers twitching.

“It’s a shame there aren’t more cats,” Ulaz says, putting away his tools and stripping off his latex gloves. “They are among my favorite Earth creatures.”

Shiro chuckles, and Pandora deigns to lick his thumb. “Do they rank higher than humans, doctor?”

Ulaz pauses, and turns to look at him with pale yellow eyes not unlike Pandora’s. “I wouldn’t say that,” he murmurs. “Humans and cats are both good, in their own ways.”

“You still believe that?” Shiro asks. “That humans are good?”

“Certainly,” Ulaz says. “Capable of good, anyway.”

“Hm.” Shiro surveys the small, neat room. “You have a nice set-up here, doctor. I imagine it’s more pleasant than your previous work?”

Ulaz tenses, the smallest of frowns settling on his face. “There are good days and bad days,” he says. “You gave me quite a bit of work after fighting your way out, for example. Though I suppose I should be grateful I had to give our people stitches rather than body bags. But I sense you wish to ask something more. Please, ask. Whatever it is, I will help if I can.”

Shiro tilts his head. “You know they riddled my body with cybernetic enhancements. My heart, my lungs, my muscles, my bones, just to name a few.”

“Yes.” Ulaz’s frown deepens. “Is everything functioning normally?”

Shiro nods. “Oh, yes. It’s all very state-of-the-art, or so the Garrison told me. But one thing the Garrison never could quite figure out was my brain.”

“What about it?”

“Did they implant inorganic components into my brain, besides the obvious?”

Ulaz inhales sharply. “You mean, on the neuronal level? As in, a robotic brain?”

“Yes.” Shiro folds his arms. “It doesn’t make sense, otherwise, that the hoktril wouldn’t have destroyed those neuronal connections.”

“We have information from Romelle suggesting that former non-cogs retain enough cognitive ability to make use of solar panels and form communities –”

“You and I both know they haven’t, and likely won’t ever, return to the level of cognitive ability they once had,” Shiro interrupts. “Yet, my neurons seem to be firing rapidly as rapidly as before.”

“But you think they’re different neurons,” Ulaz murmurs. “Neurons the Galra implanted, artificially.”

“You’re the only one here who knew me before the hoktril,” Shiro says quietly. “You’re the only one who might be able to tell me the truth. Have I changed, doctor?”

“We have all changed,” Ulaz sighs. “This world demands it.”

“Doctor.”

“Of course.” Ulaz looks down. “You are a far different man from the one the Galra dragged into that cell for the first time, Takashi Shirogane. You are more distant, and less fazed by bloodshed. But that is what trauma like yours does to a person. No neurons need be replaced – they change on their own. The human body, like the Galra body, or the Altean body, or any body in between, wants, above all else, to survive.” Ulaz looks back up. “And you survived, Takashi Shirogane. At a cost.”

“Myself,” Shiro says. “The cost was _me.”_

But Ulaz shakes his head. “You simply changed,” he says. “You were not erased, nor overwritten.”

“I have done things,” Shiro tells him, “things that I, the _I_ who saw the world end and his friends killed one by one, would have sooner died than done.”

“You think perhaps you should have died. Like them.” Ulaz sits down and folds his hands. “Survivor’s guilt is expected, for someone in your position.”

“I don’t feel guilty,” Shiro whispers. “I know I should. But I _don’t._ It’s just – a pit, an empty hole where remorse and loss should be.”

“But you mourn them, your friends?”

“I think fondly of our memories together,” Shiro says. “But they’re dead. Why should I be sad about something I cannot change?” He thinks, maybe, he never should have started this conversation.

“Because they meant something to you,” Ulaz explains gently, “and now that something is gone.”

“It isn’t gone,” Shiro says. “I still – remember it. Isn’t that enough?”

“But you will never have more of that something, with them.” Ulaz’s eyes reflect nothing, and Shiro cannot look directly into them for too long. “Don’t you want more? More moments with them, more memories?”

“No,” Shiro says. “No, they’re dead. I can’t have more. They’re _dead.”_

“Ah,” Ulaz says. “But you _do_ want.”

Shiro furrows his brow.

“Would you be sad,” Ulaz continues, “if Pandora died, in this very instant?”

Shiro glances down at her instinctively, and presses his fingertips a little more firmly into her fur. She yawns. “Yes,” he says. “I...think so.” He falters. “But I thought maybe she was dead when I took Keith from the apartment, and I wasn’t sad then, so, I don’t know, actually.”

“What did you feel, then?”

“Nothing,” Shiro admits, and his heart stumbles at the realization. “I was hollow. Numb. There wasn’t anything.”

Ulaz purses his lips. “And Keith?”

Shiro tenses. “What about him?”

“If he died, would you be sad?”

“I would have failed in my duty to him if I allowed him to die. Yes.”

“But you have already failed in your duty regarding Keith,” Ulaz points out. “You chose to give him back to the Blades, rather than fulfill the bounty contract with the Garrison. You chose to spare Keith from the hoktril. Why?”

“He was a worthier ally than the Garrison,” Shiro mutters.

“Ally? But you expected he would kill you once you brought him to Thaldcyon. Correct?”

“I expected nothing,” Shiro retorts. “I did what I felt I had to.”

“What told you that you had to bring Keith here?”

“I don’t –” Shiro frowns. “I remembered what happened to me. I did not want that to happen to him.”

“Why?”

Shiro’s jaw works. “He’s – it would be a loss, if he died.”

“A loss? Of what?”

“Him,” Shiro says, a little helplessly. “His...hope.” He swallows. “The world needs more hope. I don’t have any left. Keith does.”

“Don’t you?” Ulaz smiles faintly. “Men do not survive what you survived without hope, you know.”

Shiro strokes Pandora’s fur slowly. “I hoped for escape,” he says. “For vengeance. For an end. My hope was selfish and mean. Keith’s hope is purer than that.”

“But he has seen and experienced terrible things, also,” Ulaz replies. “So why do you think yourself incapable of hoping the way he does?”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Shiro says.

“Your brain, yes,” Ulaz mutters, and sighs. “I don’t know. The mind is unimaginably complex. And I believe, sometimes, the things our brains do to themselves – the things we do to ourselves – are far worse than anything neuroscience could manage to orchestrate.”

Shiro is cold. “So it’s my fault.”

Ulaz gives him a look. “Your fault that you survived two years in a Galra POW camp, broke a contract with the most powerful people in the Grid, saved our dearest Blade’s life, and have now sworn an oath to protect his life with your own? Yes, Shiro. That is all your fault, I’m afraid.”

“But don’t you see what I’m saying?” Shiro pleads. _“I_ didn’t survive.”

“You did,” Ulaz says. “I recognize you, Takashi Shirogane. You are much changed, but you are not dead. And when you are with Keith, in particular, I think anyone would be hard-pressed to say you are not alive and fighting to stay that way.”

Shiro raises his eyebrows, and though he cannot quite name the soft, internal sigh washing over him, it is relief. “When I am with Keith?” he echoes.

“What purpose did you have after your imprisonment, other than what the Galra gave you, what the Garrison gave you? None, I think.” Ulaz turns away with a little wave of dismissal. “The choice you made with Keith was not _given_ to you, Shiro. You did what you _wanted_ with Keith, what the Garrison wanted be damned. That is a purpose, a worthy one; one of your own design.”

Shiro swallows, and gathers Pandora up in his arms. “And that means…?

“Robots do what they are programmed to do,” Ulaz says over his shoulder. “You did not.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little party never killed nobody....
> 
> (enjoy, and thank you as always for your comments, kudos, and support!!)

Event Horizon glows in the neon and moonlight, burnished white metal exterior giving way to the dark wood-paneled walls and velvet carpets. It doesn’t feel like a club, Keith thinks as they follow Allura at a distance through the open doors, falling into step with the river of murmuring Alteans flowing into the grand party. Everyone is dressed in glittering silks and shining suits, gloved hands holding invitations rendered in glowing letters on thin plastic tablets. Soft strains of orchestral music float through the perfumed air. Crystal chandeliers crown the vaulted ceilings. Huge oil paintings loom above the guests inside gilded frames. Heels click on the marble floors and painted lips purse in quiet judgment. 

Keith finds the entire thing anachronistic in the worst way. 

“Is it just me,” Shiro murmurs, “or have we walked into a Victorian ballroom?”

Keith snorts. “I doubt the Victorians had those.” He nods to a passing Altean with two lithe cats on leashes, except the cats are more like small tigers, and they have the telltale flickers of holograms. 

“Mm.” Shiro stops as Keith hands his invitation to one of the waiting hosts. The hosts are androids, and stare back with eerie blankness, taking the invitation in gloved hands and scanning it closely.

The android smiles politely and says, “On behalf of King Alfor, welcome to Event Horizon, Mr. Sanguis. Have a lovely night.” The android ushers them in.

“Sanguis,” Shiro repeats, and snorts.

“Quiet,” Keith mutters. “You should’ve gotten a stupid Latin code name, too,  _ bodyguard.” _

“We can make one up right now,” Shiro says. “How about Lorem Ipsum –”

“Melas,” Allura says, falling into step beside Keith with the ease of a blossom carried by a stream, her pale pink dress fluttering around her in an unseen breeze. “Black, in Latin. Sanguis is, of course, blood. Red.” She taps Keith’s arm with a long turquoise nail, which snags for a second on the brocade silk’s golden lotus design. Behind her, a hooded, masked figure who must be Kolivan follows silently, falling into step with Shiro. His disguise is good – much better than Keith and Shiro’s.

“Thought you said you were going to avoid fraternizing with us,” Keith murmurs. “Now everyone is going to want to know who we are.”

Allura smiles, her metallic lips bright against dark skin. “Exactly,” she says. “You two are our distraction, as you know. Although, with any luck, most everyone will be too inebriated or otherwise engaged in the private rooms to notice or care too much.”

“The private rooms?” Keith’s eyebrows lift. Kolivan coughs. Keith can imagine the disapproving glare.

She nods. “Mm. Frequented by couples and prostitutes. Just be careful which doors you open. Now, go. Be distracting.” She glances at Shiro, and her gaze hardens. “We’ll have eyes on you, just in case.”

Keith nods. Shiro does not react, and keeps pace on Keith’s right side, a few paces behind him. In all black, he looks like the shadow he is meant to be tonight. Keith misses the silver hair. A little. It would stand out nicely against the tuxedo. Though Keith has no complaints with the tuxedo. One sleeve has been more or less removed to put the cybernetic arm on full display and it catches the light as Shiro moves, cool silver and violet accents mimicking real muscle –

Allura elbows him as she turns to go. “Focus,” she warns, and walks off into the crowd, to where Keith can just barely make out Lance and Hunk standing beside a painting of who Keith swears must be Marie Antoinette. 

“Focus,” Shiro mocks under his breath, and Keith doesn’t even dignify that with a glare.

“It isn’t my fault Kolivan put you in the tightest fitting suit he could find,” Keith growls, heading towards the closest refreshments table. 

Shiro’s laughter is soft, but not quite mocking. “That was your mother, actually.”

Keith almost trips over his own shoes. Shiro steadies him with a warm metal hand on his shoulder. “Careful,” Shiro says, and he’s stopped laughing, but his eyes haven’t.

Keith shakes his head and peers down at a plate of artfully arranged scones. “Why did I agree to this? These stupid Altean marks itch.”

“Just take the free food,” Shiro retorts. “Cheer up. Eat a croissant.”

Keith grits his teeth. “The world  _ ended,” _ he snaps. “Half the Earth is a radioactive ash heap and we’re dressed like the French Revolution is just around the corner, eating scones!”

“Don’t you like scones?” Romelle slips out from the crowd, in a frothy yellow gown, and plucks a pastry from the plate. “I like scones. And you should keep your voice down. People are staring.”

Keith’s eyes narrow as he stares at a tower of pink cupcakes with vitriol. “Let them. Kind of the point.”

She huffs at him. “Yes, but if you want people to talk to you, you can’t be glaring at the desserts like that! Mingle a little, it won’t kill you.”

“It might,” Keith grumbles. “And I don’t want people to talk to me.”

“The brooding Mr. Sanguis,” Shiro deadpans. “A mysterious man in red who spent the night avoiding everyone and grimacing at his bodyguard – ah, see, there you go, doing it again.”

_ “Fuck off,” _ Keith hisses, and grabs a croissant. 

“Why are you so worked up?” Romelle exclaims, bouncing after him with a scone in each hand when he stalks to a large potted succulent which looks like a promising place to hide. “Katie is going to figure this mess out, finally!”

“We don’t know that,” Keith cautions, leaning against the nearest wall and folding his arms. “It might just be another dead end.”

“You know,” Romelle says in a conspiratorial tone, leaning in, “what I don’t understand is why you, of all people, aren’t more excited about a resolution to all this. I mean,  _ you’re _ the one who stole –”

Shiro clears his throat and nods to the ceiling above them. Barely visible security drones hover far above the crowd, little camera-heads flicking back and forth to capture the scenes below. Romelle’s eyes widen, and she stuffs a scone into her mouth in a panic. 

“How is your scone, Miss Romelle?” Shiro asks.

“Mmff,” Romelle mumbles, just as a gaggle of Altean girls in pastel dresses drifts over to them. Keith should have chosen a bigger plant, or maybe a statue.

“Romelle!” the leader apparent exclaims, her long reddish braids twisted up in a crown-like spiral around her head. “We’re so glad you’re here, and with Princess Allura, too! And...some new acquaintances?”

Romelle’s mouth is still full of scone and she looks desperately to Keith. Goddamnit. 

“Hello,” Keith manages, and inclines his head. “Mr. Sanguis, an old friend of Allura’s. And you are?”

The girls look to be on the verge of shrieking with delight. Their leader keeps a dignified air, however, and gives a small curtsy. “What a pleasure, Mr. Sanguis! I’m Eloissa, this is Blayr, and this is Vellen.”

The most petite of the bunch, Blayr, darts out from behind Eloissa and looks directly at Shiro. “What’s  _ his _ name?” she demands.

Shiro remains impassive as Keith replies, with effort, “Melas. My bodyguard.”

“A human,” Vellen observes. “Interesting choice.”

“Android,” Blayr corrects, nodding to the cybernetic arm. “Duh.”

Keith is sure he doesn’t imagine the way Shiro stiffens 

“No,” Keith says, “you’re correct, he is human.” Shiro’s gaze slides to him. “Very much human.”

The girls’ brows go up. Romelle, who has finally finished her scone, coughs and adds, “He’s a very good bodyguard, you know.”

“Seen some action, has he?” Eloissa is looking at the scar on Shiro’s face, and then at the one on Keith’s. 

“Yes,” Keith says, and leaves it at that.

“And what about you, Mr. Sanguis?” Blayr presses. “What sort of thing do you do in the Grid?”

“I’m afraid that’s classified,” Keith says. “It’s dangerous work.”

“Dangerous?” Vellen squeaks. “Oh, my!”

“Well, you’ve got a scar too, so I’m not surprised,” Eloissa declares, hands on her hips. “You’ve got to be tough, nowadays. Only the toughest survive.”

“That’s why so many humans died,” Vellen agrees.

Keith’s eyes narrow. “Humans are plenty tough,” Romelle says uncertainly.

“Well, I guess,” Eloissa says, waving her hand, “but not nearly as smart, and wits can get you just as far as toughness, if not further.”

“Don’t forget who built the Grid,” Keith mutters. 

“Alteans designed it, though Garrison Corp takes all the credit,” Eloissa tells him. “Non-cog Galra carried out the manual labor, along with the humans. So, sure, I guess they ‘built’ it.” The girls giggle.

“There are more humans than us,” Romelle mumbles. “Be nice.”

“Yes, but if it came down to it, it would be easy for us to get rid of them,” Eloissa says. “You know that, Romelle, come on. Hira has all sorts of tricks up her sleeve, I bet.”

“The only reason the humans won the War was because we helped,” Blayr adds.

Keith takes a step forward. “Nobody  _ won _ the War,” he snaps. The girls shrink back. “That’s the whole point of nuclear warfare. Nobody wins. Everything is destroyed. Alteans know that better than anyone.”

Eloissa gulps. “What do you mean?”

“At least Earth is still here,” Keith retorts, and Vallen covers her mouth with a little gasp matched by the horrified expressions of Blayr and Eloissa. “Have a nice evening.”

“He didn’t mean that!” Romelle exclaims as Keith marches off, hands curled into fists. “Mr. Sanguis is – he says a lot of things – don’t think too much about it –”

“Smooth,” Shiro murmurs once they’re out of earshot. “Telling teenage Alteans they ought to be grateful this planet isn’t as obliterated as Altea.”

“Well, they should be,” Keith says. “Alteans nuked their planet beyond repair and left.”

“Do you think they were cowards to do so?” Keith doesn’t answer that. “The only reason we haven’t left is because we don’t have the technology,” Shiro points out.

Keith shakes his head, and stops in a quiet corner overlooking the dance floor. “I didn’t realize it was so bad,” he admits. “The tensions between Galra and human I know all about, sure, but Altean and human? We’re supposed to be allies.”

“There’s a reason Lance and Allura keep their relationship behind closed doors,” Shiro murmurs after checking for drones.

Keith gives him a sharp look. “What do you know about that?”

“Oh, come on,” Shiro says, “I have eyes.”

“Then look away,” Keith says. “It’s what the rest of us do.”

The orchestra begins a new movement, this one slower but working towards a rousing crescendo.

“How did they even meet?” Shiro murmurs, leaning against the wall. 

Keith frowns. “Some club,” he says.

“Not the Pink Lion?”

“No. She was undercover.”

Shiro hums, considering it. “As a human?”

“I don’t know. Lance wouldn’t have cared either way. He isn’t picky about who he sleeps with.”

“I thought you two were friends.”

Keith snorts. “We are. I’m just honest.”

“Some would say painfully blunt.”

Keith shrugs. “Nothin’ wrong with sleeping around, as long as you’re careful.”

Shiro’s lips quirk. “Careful,” he drawls. “Never thought I’d hear  _ you _ preach about safe sex. There were plenty of condoms in that box.”

Keith’s pointed ears burn. “I was drunk,” he snaps.

Shiro sighs. “Ah. Impressive dexterity for a drunk man, then. Didn’t you use your teeth?”

“Can you stop talking?”

“I’m just trying to figure out if you gave me the clap,” Shiro says lightly.

Keith glares at him. “I did  _ not. _ I was abstinent for six months before that, so. If you’ve got it, it ain’t my fault.”

Shiro blinks. “Six months?”

“We can’t all afford pretty callboys to come to our fancy Equinox apartments at our leisure.”

Shiro flushes and looks away. “There were no callboys,” he says.

“But…?”

“I did my job,” Shiro mutters. “There wasn’t time for much else.”

Keith falters. “So – that night –”

“I thought you wanted to stop talking,” Shiro says, and shuts his mouth.

“But that wasn’t the first –”

Shiro eyes him coolly. “No. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Keith shakes his head. “Wasn’t trying to. Just figured, a nerd who joined the military so young –”

“He was in the military,” Shiro says.

“Oh.” Keith swallows. “Is he…”

“Plane went down,” Shiro sighs. “During Operation Monsoon. He was another Captain. His squad was one of the first to go.”

Keith exhales. “I’m...sorry, Shiro.”

“Don’t be.” Shiro’s gaze drifts away. “He’s been dead for years.”

“So has my dad,” Keith whispers. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“You miss him?” It’s a genuine question.

“Of course.”

Shiro hesitates. “You saw him die.” Not a question.

Keith looks across the dance floor, where colorful figures twirl and glide in neat lines, joining in the middle in perfect time.

“Yeah. I was just a kid. I was hiding. Felt like I should scream, or run, or try to fight. But my dad told me to stay hidden. So I did. I just watched. There was nothing else to do.”

“You could have closed your eyes,” Shiro murmurs.

“No,” Keith says. “I had to watch. I could see him through the floorboards — I could hear him. I couldn’t be with him then, but I could watch.”

“They didn’t make it quick,” Shiro says, “did they?”

“No,” Keith says. He turns back to Shiro. “I do care about this intel,” he says quietly. “Figuring it out was my dad’s final wish. Whatever it is, he thought it was worth dying for. And I trust him.”

Shiro tilts his head. “It wasn’t the Blade who made you steal that intel, was it?”

“No.” Keith frowns. “I would have stolen it, no matter what it took, whether they wanted me to or not.” He shakes his head. “Kolivan understood that, and so did my mother. I know the Garrison must have told you they forced me to do it, but that’s wrong. We were angry and grieving. That intel belongs in my dad’s hands, not the Garrison’s. That’s how I see it.”

“Pardon me for interrupting,” an approaching Altean man in green says, “but have we met before?”

Keith eyes him, and Shiro does too. “I don’t think so,” Keith says. “You are…?”

“Ah – Mr. Belvere, apologies. I could have sworn…” The man furrows his brow at Keith, and then at Shiro. 

“Mr. Sanguis,” Keith says curtly. “That’s Melas. Can I help you, Mr. Belvere?”

Mr. Belvere clears his throat, gaze drifting to Shiro again. “Yes. I was wondering if you could spare your bodyguard for a dance or two, Mr. Sanguis.”

Keith stares at him. “What?”

“I know it’s unorthodox,” Mr. Belvere sighs, “but my friends and I so rarely get to mingle with humans, and, well, he is an awfully pretty one –”

_ “No!” _ Keith snaps, and Mr. Belvere startles back. 

“No? I –”

“He is  _ my _ bodyguard, not your  _ personal escort,” _ Keith retorts. 

“Ah.” Mr. Belvere eyes him up and down. “Well, what about you, then?”

Keith grits his teeth. He doesn’t think. He just turns to Shiro, who is watching with brows raised, grabs his left arm, and says, “We’re dancing. Sorry. Bye.” He marches off onto the dance floor with Shiro, who goes with obvious bemusement.

Mr. Belvere’s mouth falls open in dismay. Laughter issues from one of the dining tables, and his face colors violently red before he storms off, back to his seat. 

“I don’t know how to dance,” Shiro says as Keith matches up his stance to the other dance partners around them. 

“It’s fine,” Keith says, and grabs his waist in one hand, his hand in the other. “I’ll lead.”

The next song begins, and Keith focuses harder than is strictly necessary on correct foot placement. Shiro only stumbles once; he picks it up quickly, and follows Keith with surprising ease, relaxing after a few minutes. 

“You’re not bad at this,” Shiro says, gray eyes made warm by the soft lighting. 

“I succeed out of spite,” Keith mutters, glancing back at Mr. Belvere’s table. 

“I don’t think you can learn ballroom dancing out of pure spite,” Shiro chuckles. “Though, if anyone could, it would be you.”

Keith doesn’t know what that means. “Hmph,” he says. 

“I also don’t think Altean businessmen are supposed to dance with their human bodyguards.”

“Yet, here we are,” Keith retorts, “dancing.”

“Yes.” Shiro tilts his head. “We are.”

The song goes on for a long, long time. They don’t say much. They just dance, and the longer Keith spends so close to Shiro, twirling him around under the golden chandeliers and marble arches, the more difficult it becomes to ignore how beautiful he is. 

“Shiro?” Keith murmurs as their chests brush on a quick side-step.

“Hm?” Shiro’s breath smells like peppermints.

“Why did you let me fuck you?”

Shiro does stumble, then. 

The song slows. Keith stares up at him, waiting. 

_ “Why?”  _ Shiro manages, his voice uneven. “I need a reason?”

“You tryin’ to tell me you just did it because it was convenient for you?” Keith shakes his head. “For all you knew, I could’ve hurt you. You were after a criminal, weren’t you?”

“No,” Shiro says. “No, I was after you.”

“Except you weren’t, really,” Keith says. “You were after Ulaz. You were after the truth. So why risk letting me into your bed?”

“It wasn’t a risk,” Shiro says. “I knew what I was doing.”

“I just don’t get it,” Keith mutters. “See, I thought you just wanted to fuck a pretty hybrid before turning him in for bounty money.” Shiro jolts under his touch, and Keith’s fingers curl a little tighter against his hip. “But you had your chances. You never took them. Why?”

Shiro’s expression is halfway between startled and ashamed. “I...because I like –”

The song ends, dousing them in a beat of unnerving quiet, and as the pairs disperse, Mr. Belvere stalks across the dance floor up to them. 

“You!” he exclaims, pointing a finger at them, “Sanguis! I know you! I was right, I –”

“Let’s go,” Shiro whispers, and grabs his arm. They hurry away from the angry Altean, pushing past a few couples and winding their way through the oblivious crowd with no apparent destination in mind except away. Then Keith sees a hallway off to the left, and steers Shiro towards it, glancing back – Mr. Belvere is still in pursuit, though he can see Romelle hurrying in a flurry of yellow skirts to intercept him. 

The passing Alteans purposefully avoid the hallway, but Keith is too busy fleeing to notice this, and when they make a sharp right and turn into some kind of dark antechamber, Keith slams the door behind them, and leads Shiro deeper into the room, through some sort of curtained archway. Mr. Belvere’s strident voice echoes from the hall, and Keith yanks the curtains shut, both of them breathing shallowly as the door creaks open. 

“Wait! Stop! Those are  _ private!” _ Romelle exclaims. “Stop that disgusting voyeur!”

Keith never wants to hear Romelle say “voyeur” ever again. 

“Mr. Belvere,” another Altean says, “you’re making a scene.”

“How dare you! I _ know _ what I saw –”

“Mr. Belvere.”

_ “Ugh!”  _ He stomps away, and to Keith’s relief, the door clicks shut. 

“That was close,” Keith whispers, peeking through the gap in the velvet curtains and tugging them fully shut, listening to the Altean’s receding footsteps. He turns back to face Shiro. “I thought for sure we were…”

Shiro is very close. The room they ducked into is small; less than twice the size of Shiro’s cell, with a pleasant painting of several preening peacocks on the opposite wall, and a large alcove bench set into the wall closest to them, laden with lavish cushions. Understanding hits Keith in a dizzying rush – they’re in one of the private rooms Allura mentioned. The ones used by prostitutes and couples. 

“We were what?” Shiro asks, and either he is unaware of their dizzying proximity, and of his breath brushing Keith’s cheek, or he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Keith breathes, and kisses him.

Shiro shudders and makes a sound against Keith’s lips, but then he’s kissing him back, yet holding still, hands hanging tense at his sides like he’s afraid to touch.

Keith isn’t. He grabs at Shiro’s jacket, tugging him forwards and walking blindly back until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bench, and then Shiro, unbalanced, topples into his lap. Keith grunts, parts his thighs to make room for Shiro between them, and Shiro opens his mouth, pressing Keith back against the wall as he crowds over him, thigh giving pressure right where Keith needs it. Keith’s nails scratch through Shiro’s undercut, fingertips ghosting over the nape of his neck and what Keith swears is a line of raised scar tissue. Shiro breaks away, chest heaving and face flushed in the low light.

“Sorry,” Keith gasps.

In reply, Shiro drops to his knees like a puppet with cut strings, more crumpled than kneeling. Keith stares at him, pulse racing, legs spreading wider without a thought when Shiro’s hands settle over them. Shiro keeps his head bowed, like he can’t meet Keith’s eyes, and noses over the seam of Keith’s slacks, his breath warm and damp, coaxing Keith to slump back against the wall as Shiro’s hands slide inwards, fumbling at his fly. 

Keith makes a strangled, breathy noise, as if Shiro’s intent wasn’t obvious before. But seeing Shiro on his knees is different than imagining it. He’s really  _ there.  _ He’s really leaning in to nuzzle against the embarrassingly obvious line of Keith’s dick through the black fabric, then easing the zipper down, and Keith’s briefs with it, until his cock is in Shiro’s gloved left hand and his heart is somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. 

_ “Shiro,” _ Keith whispers, and groans when Shiro’s head dips down to kiss the dark crown of Keith’s cock, lips so soft, tongue even softer, wetter, sliding down over the thickening length hot and perfect. Shiro’s right hand splays over his belly, blindly pushing up the hem of his shirt under the jacket, metal fingers stroking light and teasing at the sharp curve of his hip bone and the unseen lines of dark tattoos. 

Shiro says nothing, only opens his mouth wider, swallowing hard, eyes fluttering shut, sinking down until Keith feels his throat work around the tip. Keith groans again, louder, hips jerking up, and Shiro doesn’t stop him. His eyes blink open, finally meeting Keith’s, dark and pleading, and Keith shudders before curling his fingers into Shiro’s forelock and dragging his head down, down, down. 

He doesn’t expect Shiro’s answering moan, vibrating around his cock, jaw going slack as Keith thrusts in and out of his waiting mouth. Shiro licks and sucks when he can, sloppy and out of practice, but Keith loves the mess of it; loves the way Shiro’s brows draw together and his face blotches with color, his breath hitched and ragged around Keith’s cock, his gaze losing its cold edge and turning hazy, unfocused, heavy with want. Keith fucks his mouth until Shiro’s drooling, panting, and Keith knows Shiro won’t tell him to stop when it hurts, because he  _ wants _ it to hurt. 

Shiro wants to be punished beyond what he can take.

Keith’s hand tightens in Shiro’s hair at the realization and he comes with a low gasp, head thudding back onto the plaster siding. Shiro chokes, and Keith releases him, watching as white streaks Shiro’s chin and cheeks and gaping mouth. Shiro doesn’t even try to move away, gaze lowering again, head leaning onto Keith’s inner thigh with the barest pressure, like he expects Keith to shove him away at any moment, and leave him here, used and alone. 

Christ, he’s a fucking mess. No wonder Keith’s falling so goddamn hard for him. 

_ Wait.  _ Oh,  _ shit. _

“Shiro,” Keith says again, then, louder, “Takashi,” and Shiro glances up, hesitant,  _ afraid. _

“Keith,” he says, shoulders hunched, gaze in danger of sliding away again, this time never to return. 

“Come here,” Keith whispers, and touches his hair, not pulling or forcing this time, but careful, as sweet as Keith can be, stroking soft silver away from wide gray eyes and letting his fingertips linger on blush-warm skin. “Wanna kiss you again.”

Shiro goes when Keith gently draws upon his wrist, slow and confused, guiding him back up to the alcove bench, and he makes a shocked sort of sound when Keith swings a leg over his thighs, settles into his lap, and kisses him long and deep, nothing like the shivery, bruising kisses they’d stolen before. The moment Shiro relaxes against him is a moment of victory Keith marks with a teasing nip to his lower lip before shifting closer, hand smoothing down the front of Shiro’s suit jacket and unbuckling Shiro’s belt, making his meaning clear. 

Shiro sucks in a breath, cybernetic hand cupping Keith’s jaw and squirming under him when Keith’s fingers dip under the waistband of his slacks, nails scratching through coarse hair, grinning against Shiro’s lips when his thumb rubs over softer skin and harder veins. Shiro bites back a whine, and Keith shoves his hand into Shiro’s slacks without bothering with the zipper, shaping Shiro’s cock through his underwear, pulling him close with a firm arm around his waist. He’s already so hard from sucking Keith off; it won’t take much.

Keith’s mouth wanders to Shiro’s neck and Shiro shudders as his teeth graze and his lips drag, finding the shell of Shiro’s ear and whispering, “Can you come for me, just like this?”

Shiro buries his face in the crook of Keith’s neck, smothering his quiet moan into red brocade silk, and shakes his head. “No, I can’t —”

“What was that?” Keith hisses, pulling away.

Shiro’s slack mouth closes, jaw tightening, his hand on Keith’s jaw sliding quick and deadly to the back of his neck. Metal fingers curl tight around flexing vertebrae and Keith makes a choked, indignant sound when Shiro grabs his hip and neck together, using the newfound leverage to flip him down into the alcove pillows, brow lowered and body falling heavy over Keith’s. Keith stares up at him, twists in a hint of struggle, and Shiro pins his wrists.

Shiro’s dick nudges against Keith’s hip through his slacks, a clearly visible line under the dark fabric. Keith’s softening dick is still out, and when Shiro’s slacks brush over it Keith hisses again, oversensitive, squirming in earnest.

“Stop squirming,” Shiro warns, his grip on Keith’s wrists gentling, though still too firm to break unless Keith shifts, and maybe not even then. 

Keith swallows, heart pounding. “This the part where you take your revenge and fuck me?”

Shiro blinks, and tilts his head. “Revenge?”

Keith’s head is blurry and he’s getting hard again. They should be outside, mingling, doing their job, covering for the others, but it’s suddenly impossible to think about anything but Shiro.

“Yeah,” Keith whispers, halting, throat dry as sandpaper. “Don’t you wanna — punish me?”

Shiro’s eyes darken and his cybernetic hand warms around Keith’s wrists. “Not really,” Shiro murmurs, and leans down, his mouth so hot on Keith’s neck that Keith jerks and gasps at the searing touch of his tongue and teeth. Shiro sucks hard, followed by a sharp nip and a softer kiss, dragged up to Keith’s jaw and ear. Every breath leaves Keith shivering. 

“But you want to,” Keith breathes, closing his eyes, “fuck me.”

Shiro hums, noncommittal, and lifts his head from Keith’s neck. “Does it matter?”

Keith’s eyes widen, and Shiro’s hand squeezes his thigh like a promise. “What — yes?  _ Shit —” _

Shiro unzips his slacks. “You shouldn’t be letting me,” he murmurs with no small amount of wonder. “After everything…”

“Just  _ touch _ me,” Keith groans. “Shudd _ up,  _ an’ touch me _.” _

He doesn’t expect Shiro to wrap the warm metal hand around both of their cocks. Keith bucks up into his grip with near-violence, the friction almost too much after one orgasm, and Shiro chuckles near his ear. 

“Needy,” Shiro says, but he’s breathless, too, and Keith can  _ feel _ how hard he is, sloppy precum slicking the way, squeezing and stroking them in tandem as Keith writhes and dislodges the pillows out from under them. Shiro’s cock is heavy and thick over his, and Keith’s toes curl when Shiro’s thumb presses just so into his slit and then  _ vibrates, what the fuck, fuck, fuck. _

Keith’s strangled shout is cut off by Shiro’s gloved hand smacking over his mouth.

“Quiet,” Shiro warns, face flushed and lips parted, “or someone will hear you.”

_ “Nngh!”  _ Keith says furiously against his palm, and with his freed wrists wrenches Shiro’s hand from his mouth and yanks him down into a kiss. 

Shiro moans into his mouth, hips working faster, stuttering while Keith fists a hand into his hair and licks past his lips, cock throbbing and helpless noises spilling between them as Shiro’s entire  _ stupid _ new hand vibrates, and Keith loses his goddamn mind to incoherent pleasure.

*

Under him, Keith is all flushed skin and sweat and desperate noises. 

He kisses like he’s drowning, and Shiro isn’t sure if he’s meant to be the oxygen or the water rushing in, filling Keith’s lungs, pulling him under. Keith jerks against him like he’s drowning too, clutching at Shiro’s suit jacket and finding solid purchase when his fingers hook into Shiro’s belt. Keith yanks on the leather and Shiro is forced against him, cock sliding over Keith’s abdomen, smearing sticky trails over dark ink, peeking out from where Keith’s white dress shirt is rucked up and half-unbuttoned. 

Keith tears away from the kiss to let out a whine which deepens to a ragged groan when Shiro’s vibrating cybernetic fist closes fully around his cock, and Shiro covers his mouth again – not because he cares if anyone finds them, but because he likes how the black silk looks against Keith’s red face, and he likes the feeling of Keith’s hot damp breath against it, and he likes how Keith lets him do it.

Shiro grunts softly as he nears his finish, rutting against Keith hard enough to make the bench creak under them, and Keith  _ arches  _ upwards, biting down on his gloved palm. Shiro presses down harder on his mouth in retaliation and sharp canines dig into his skin through the silk, but Keith isn’t trying to make him bleed. 

Keith isn’t hurting him – he’s panting, muffled moans coupled by the furrow between his lifted brows and the dark flutter of his lashes over hazy, shining eyes. The false Altean marks gleam a lurid scarlet in the shifting light, a shade darker than his blush. He’s wrapping a splayed leg around Shiro’s waist, changing the angle to something sweeter, but more than that – he’s  _ letting Shiro  _ do _ this _ to  _ him.  _

Why, Shiro isn’t certain. He knows Keith is, has been, physically attracted to him since the first night they met, and at least since Keith’s heat – though, of course, anything Keith said during that time shouldn’t be taken at face value. He wasn’t in his right mind, then – nor was he in his right mind when Shiro lured him to Equinox and into his bed.

But Keith is sober, now, and his lust is not biologically induced, and yet here he is, under Shiro, begging him for more with the open sprawl of his body and the low timbre of his wordless sounds. 

So, why now?

Perhaps it is because Keith now feels it is safe enough to do this with him. Not because he trusts Shiro; Shiro has no illusions about that, but because Shiro now has an obligation to uphold, and Keith knows he is a man of rules and hierarchy. Shiro may have been utterly dishonest to him when they first met, but that was because he had no obligation to Keith. Now he has sworn an oath. And Keith can trust that, if nothing else. 

But Shiro aches for Keith to know that no oath was necessary; that Shiro would have him however Keith would allow him to, or not. 

Keith makes a sound like a sob against his palm and Shiro lifts his hand away.

_ “Shiro,” _ Keith gasps, and closes his eyes as his hands close around Shiro’s hips, dragging him as close as he can. Shiro’s wet glove leaves a shine on Keith’s cheek when he cups the flushed skin, and Shiro’s chest tightens when Keith leans blearily into it, lips forming a glossy pink ‘o’ as he comes for the second time. 

Shiro swears there are claws digging into his hipbones, but then Keith’s grip weakens, and he slumps into the pillows with half-lidded eyes. Shiro moves to kneel between Keith’s legs, working his hand over himself and biting his lip as Keith watches.

_ “Fuck,” _ Keith whispers, a sort of awe in the word, and Shiro comes just like that, squeezing his cock through the pulses, shuddering, splattering Keith’s already messy stomach with white. Keith groans quietly, still watching. Shiro sits back on his heels, after, trying to remember how to breathe. 

The sounds of the party swell and fall around them, a distant ocean of people and music; in the island of their little room none of that matters. Shiro lifts his head and looks at Keith, who is the very picture of debauchery. His eyes are mostly shut, arm flung over his head, half-bent leg hanging off the edge of the alcove bench. 

Will Keith be satisfied with this little tryst? Now that the tension between them has been dispelled, will Keith find satisfaction elsewhere, with others, others who have not treated him the way Shiro has? That would probably be the wisest choice, for them both. But it is not a choice Shiro likes, not one bit. 

Keith opens his eyes like it pains him to do so, and sits up, propping himself up on his elbows and pretending he doesn’t have cum all over his belly. “Can I kiss you again?”

Apparently not satisfied yet, then. Well, Shiro won’t complain.

He nods, and shivers when Keith follows up, tugging him down and kissing him lazily, pressing him into the alcove not enough to trap or pin, just letting his weight anchor Shiro into place. In the space of a few breaths Keith cleans them both off with an already-ruined glove, making them both presentable again, but he doesn’t move off of Shiro’s lap and Shiro doesn’t want him to. 

He chases Keith’s mouth with an imploring hum when Keith leans away to zip up their rumpled slacks, and Keith melts into the second kiss when he’s done, sighing as Shiro’s fingers curl into the long hair at the nape of his neck. His neat braids are ruined, and Keith doesn’t seem to care, not when Shiro’s nails are scratching lightly at his scalp, and his palm cups the back of Keith’s skull in a softer parallel of his earlier manhandling. 

It must go on for a while, Shiro’s lips tingle when they part, and he’s not quite able to school his content expression. Keith chuckles and raises an eyebrow at him. “You good?”

_ Good.  _ No, he is not that. Shiro clears his throat. “I like kissing you. It’s...nice.”

“Nice?” Keith snorts. “I’ll take it, I guess.”

Shiro tried, at least. He leans back, nudging Keith off. “It was a compliment.”

“Uh-huh.” Keith flips his disheveled, sweaty hair out of his eyes, but privately Shiro thinks it’s a lost cause. He reaches out, smoothing Keith’s hair out of his face more neatly, and Keith freezes.

Shiro tucks the offending strand of hair behind Keith’s ear, and does not let his touch linger. Keith doesn’t want lingering, and Shiro can’t argue with that. 

Keith eyes him, lips pursed. “I have a question,” he says. 

Shiro raises an eyebrow. He isn’t sure why his heart is still beating so fast; the exertion has passed. “Ask, then.”

Keith folds his arms. “Why the  _ fuck _ does your hand do that?”

Shiro grins and seizes the non sequitur. “Wasn’t it designed by  _ your _ friends?”

Keith splutters at him. “They wouldn’t – why would a weapon – there’s no reason for it to do that!”

“A weapon,” Shiro repeats dryly, grin vanishing. “Think of it more as a Swiss Army Knife.”

Keith makes a face. “I don’t want a Swiss Army Knife anywhere near my dick or otherwise, thanks.”

Shiro stands up, leaving Keith curled up in the alcove. There is a strange, sour taste on his tongue, suddenly. “You seemed to like it just fine,” he mutters, and turns away. “We should go –”

“Wait.” Keith seizes his hand, his right hand, and Shiro peers down at him. “I didn’t mean –  _ you _ aren’t a weapon. To me. That isn’t…”

A scream echoes through the air, followed by a deafening series of rapid-fire gunshots. Keith leaps to his feet, letting go of Shiro’s hand, unsheathing his concealed knife as Shiro draws his handgun.

“The others,” Keith whispers, eyes flaring gold. 

Shiro stares at him, glad he has something to blame his pounding heart on. “We have a traitor in our midst.”

_ “Warlords!” _ someone shouts, cut-off in an agonized cry, and the look of horrified betrayal on Keith’s face threatens to make Shiro’s heart stop altogether.

“She wouldn’t,” Keith says as they run from the private room and into the secluded hallway. “It  _ can’t _ be her. It can’t.” 

The gunshots are louder, there, coupled by panicked screams and choked crying and someone yells to  _ get down, _ and the parachute won’t open,  _ why won’t it open, Takashi, help me, please _ – Shiro braces himself against the doorway for a dizzying moment, distant radio chatter echoing in his head. 

“Hey.” Keith touches his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Shiro swallows back bile and nods. “Stay behind me. You don’t have a gun. Or Kevlar.”

“I’ll be fine.” They inch down the hallway and towards the ballroom. 

Before they can reach it, a familiar figure sprints across their path, firing a round over her shoulder and whirling to face them. It’s Acxa – she’s dropped her Altean disguise, purple marks smeared messily over her cheekbones, and her eyes widen when she sees them. 

_ “Keith,”  _ she gasps, “thank fuck you’re alright.”

Keith doesn’t lower his knife. “Tell me it wasn’t you.”

“It wasn’t me,” Acxa swears. “I don’t know how – but they’re here. All of ‘em. We need to get out, ASAP.”

To Shiro’s disbelief, Keith just nods, accepting her word as truth. “Okay. We gotta get to Pidge and the others in the basement. Cover my back.”

“Got it,” Acxa says.

“Wait.” Shiro starts forward. “Keith –”

“Get as many of these guests out as you can; our people take priority,” Keith orders. “We’ll regroup at the spinners. Don’t get shot.”

Shiro looks at him, and in a split second Shiro tries to memorize his face, his voice,  _ him,  _ and then Keith is running away with Acxa, and she’s firing another round into the screaming crowd, the dark silhouette of a Warlord falling through the haze of a smoke bomb, and Shiro is alone. 

Shiro knows, even if he had all the time in the world, he still wouldn’t remember Keith, in the end. Because memory isn’t the same as having him, right there, alive. The realization hits him like an atomic shockwave, fallout settling heavy and dangerous in his very core, hands trembling as he cocks the gun and steps into the ballroom.

_ If he died, would you be sad? _

Sad, Shiro thinks, is far too small a word for what he would feel if he lost Keith.

A Warlord comes at him with a machete, and Shiro dodges with an ease that comes too naturally to him. He wishes it wasn’t so effortless for him to grab the blade in midair with his cybernetic hand, and twist until the Warlord’s wrist pops and cracks, and he wishes he felt something other than faint annoyance when he forces the blade back against its owner’s unarmored neck, blood spurting across the front of Shiro’s suit. 

If he thinks about it, he supposes he does feel something. This Warlord is a person; they must have family, friends, loved ones. 

But not anymore. Now, they are dead at his feet, and honestly, thinking about their personhood does nothing to improve the situation. 

He squints through the smoke-bomb haze, wiping a few splatters of blood idly from his face and searching the fleeing crowd for a yellow gown. He hears Romelle before he sees her — she cries out somewhere to his left, and Shiro dives into the fray, taking out two more Warlords before he sees her — she’s grabbed a gun from a nearby corpse, smart girl, and she’s holding it at the approaching Warlord with shaking gloved hands.

“Stay back!” Romelle warns, her blonde hair all askew, curling free of its braids. 

“Or what?” the Warlord laughs, hefting his shotgun up higher. “You’ll shoot? You even know how to use that thing?”

“What do you want?” Romelle pleads, backing up towards the same plant Shiro and Keith attempted to hide behind earlier. The poor succulent is now full of smoking bullet holes. 

Shiro approaches quietly, using the smoke to his advantage. He wants to hear this.

“Nothin’ much,” the Warlord says with a grin. “Just a little data chip, that’s all. You know anything ‘bout that, girl?”

Romelle gulps, her eyes darting back and forth, frantically searching for help. “I — I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Liar,” the Warlord snarls. “You’re Princess Allura’s little charity case, huh? Bet she tells you things. Bet it wouldn’t take much for you to tell ‘em to me, too.”

Shiro shoots him in the back of the head. He crumples to the marble with a muffled thud. Romelle staggers backwards, dropping the gun and gasping, covering her mouth and staring at Shiro with not quite relief as he hurries towards her.

“Y-you just — he’s —” She hiccups on a sob.

She is young. Too young to be seeing this carnage. Shiro sighs and blocks her view of the fresh corpse with his body. “It’s alright,” Shiro murmurs. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

_ “Alright?”  _ she whispers. “Everyone’s  _ dead!” _

“We’re not,” Shiro says. “Come. I’ll get you to the back door, and then you run to the spinners. Remember where we parked?”

“Yes,” she whispers, and takes his offered (left) hand gingerly. “Okay.”

Shiro thankfully avoids anymore bloodshed on their way to the back door. Romelle huddles beside him, trying not to look at the bodies on the floor, and looks like she might cry when they finally reach the door. “Thank you,” she says, lavender eyes huge. “You’ll get the others? You’ll make sure they’re safe? And — Keith, where’s Keith?!”

“Go,” Shiro says, and pushes her gently out the door. “Don’t worry about them. It will be fine. Just get to the spinners.”

She opens her mouth, closes it, and runs out into the empty street, torn gown fluttering in the wind.

Shiro turns back into the smoke, picking his way along the edges of the ballroom. He keeps an eye out for more Warlords, but all is still, eerily so. He reaches a stairwell, and more smoke floats up in ghostly fingers which wrap and whisper around Shiro’s legs and waist as he descends. The staircase is wide and the banister curves in a fine strip of dark walnut veneer. There are a few chunks missing from it, splintered violently to reveal the paler wood beneath. 

The steps are littered with the things people left behind — gloves, jewelry, crumpled tablets, broken wine glasses, shattered chinaware, drying blood. Shiro pauses halfway down — there is a movement up ahead, a figure lifting their head in the smoke, and the faint sound of weeping.

He takes a step forward, and blue eyes glow fiercely in the gloom. “Not one step closer!” Allura orders, followed by the click of a cocking gun, and Shiro relaxes.

“It’s just me, Princess,” Shiro says. “Are you hurt?”

Her gaze lowers, and she lets out a choked sob.  _ “Shiro. _ Shit. No, I’m not hurt, but –” She makes the sound again, a wretched noise that leaves Shiro fearing the worst as the smoke clears around his feet, and then he sees the motionless figure in Allura’s arms. 

It’s Lance.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to the song [Mr. Fear by SIAMÉS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EKLWC93nvAU) which was definitely something I listened to a lot while writing this chapter...and this fic in general...
> 
> uhhh heads up, the graphic violence tag is there for a reason, hopefully nothing too gratuitous or gag-inducing bc i try to keep that to a minimum but There Is Blood, People Do Get Hurt. 
> 
> that being said, thanks for your support and comments!! they make me smile :')

Allura has always loved these parties, but tonight she cannot bring herself to enjoy the revelries as usual. The air is charged, whether by her own imagining or by the tension of her fellow party-goers; she does not know.

She walks through the crowd with Kolivan close behind, all eyes upon her, holding her head high so that the light will catch the blue glitter on her eyelids, and the silvery highlights on her cheeks. Her father is not in attendance tonight, which was partly why this gala was a prime opportunity to infiltrate the basement rooms. It does gratify her to know that she is the most powerful person here, at least in terms of access and loyalty. She could ask any of the Altean guests to dance with her, to bow before her, to bring her champagne, to kiss her gloved hand, and they would. 

But sovereignty is a lonely business. She falters, gazing out at a far-off figure, and Kolivan stops short, looking down at her through his dark mask, unspoken question hovering in the air between them, never to be answered.

Across the ballroom, Lance throws back his head and laughs as Hunk leans in closer, smiling the secretive grin shared only between best friends. They make a striking pair, in their blue and gold. 

That afternoon, she had painted the Altean marks onto Lance’s face with care, a powder blue to match his suit. They’d already affixed the ear prosthetics together, and though there’s little to be done about the eyes and teeth, the illusion is already a bit too good for comfort.

“How do I look?” Lance asks, puffing his chest out and tilting his head at the mirror when Allura finishes fussing over the marks. “Like the handsomest Altean gentleman around?”

Allura rolls her eyes. “Oh, yes. All the Altean ladies will be swooning at the sight of you, obviously.”

Lance grins and reaches out, tucking a curl of her hair behind her ear. “I only want one of them to be swooning, though, and she’s right here.”

Allura huffs, her face hot, and catches his wrist. “This is a serious mission, Lance.”

“I know,” Lance sighs, and leans in, bumping his nose against hers. She sucks in a sharp breath, staring up at him. “I know you can handle yourself, princess. But...in case things go south, promise me you’ll stay safe, okay?”

Allura makes a soft sound. “Nothing will go south, Lance,” she murmurs. “But, yes. I promise. If you’ll promise me, too.”

“Sure,” Lance says, and wraps an arm around her waist, bringing her in flush against him, and leaning his head into her shoulder in that easily intimate way of his. “I promise.”

Allura hugs him back and stares at the blank wall behind them, her mind wandering. “Do you trust him?”

“Hmm? Who?”

“Shiro,” Allura says, and pulls away. “I worry about him...and Keith.”

Lance’s brow furrows. “What, you aren’t doubting Keith’s loyalty again, are you?”

“No, no...it’s just, they care for each other, or at least Keith cares for him. It’s strange. Keith isn’t known for getting attached, and yet...he has done everything in his power to keep Shiro as safe as possible thus far. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah…” Lance frowns. “Krolia said their previous mission went fine, though. What are you saying? You think something fishy’s goin’ on?”

Allura bites her lip. “No...I just worry that Keith might put himself in harm’s way to prevent Shiro from getting hurt. He tends to act long before thinking about the consequences...”

“Princess,” Lance murmurs, “no one’s gonna get hurt. Okay? We’re gonna go to this party, we’re gonna have fun, Pidge is gonna work her magic, and we’re gonna solve this mystery.”

“You really think so?” Allura lifts her gaze to him. “I don’t know...I have a  _ terrible _ feeling, Lance.”

Lance cups her cheek and smiles gently. “Hey. You’re just nervous – that makes sense. But we’ll be right there beside you, princess. You won’t be doing this on your own.”

“And I am grateful for that,” Allura whispers, “but I…”

She trails off into uncertain silence.

Lance sighs. “Allura. We all want this shit to be over with – and after tonight, with any luck, it will be. That’s something to look forward to.”

“But maybe I don’t want that,” Allura admits. “Maybe I don’t want to know that my father really is behind Project VOLTRON. What will I do if he is, Lance? He’s been different ever since my mother died, but...to hide a secret this important from me? One that could save the world? It isn’t like him.”

“We can’t be sure of any of that, yet,” Lance cautions, but his brow is furrowed. 

Allura gives in to the urge to tuck her face against his chest, and he makes a small noise of surprise before wrapping his arms around her, rubbing her back as she lets herself cling to him. “Part of me is glad my people crashed on Earth, because if we hadn’t, I never would have met you,” Allura mumbles. “But the other part of me...the other part of me hates what we’ve become since then. We spent so long hiding among humans, working our way up into the highest positions of your society, or otherwise pulling strings from afar, or laying low until it was safe to rise again...and I fear that power has corrupted us.”

“Alteans helped humans in the War,” Lance murmurs. “They helped the Galra, too – they stopped humans from lashing out in blind fear against the unknown. That’s gotta count for something.”

“But don’t you see, Lance?” Allura lifts her head. “We’re all stuck on Earth together. No one, Altean or human or Galra, deserves to live or die more than the other. But we, of all the people on this planet, got into the Grid. Some by wealth and status, some by connections, some by complete chance – and yet we see ourselves as superior. We forget that our brothers and sisters, Altean or not, are out in the Wastelands, sick with radiation that would have killed us all just the same. Or else, stranded in other Grids, which may be even more corrupt than this one, or even collapsed altogether!”

“Allura, hey,” Lance whispers in obvious alarm, “where’s all this coming from?”

“We have grown complacent,” Allura whispers back. “We squabble amongst ourselves in our tiny safezone, we declare our enmity for each other based upon biological differences real or imagined, and for what?” She strokes Lance’s face, her nails scraping lightly down the smooth brown skin. “It can’t last, Lance, this false utopia we’ve built on a crumbling foundation. It’s just – it’s all so stupid. That’s what it is. All these rules and secrets and fear – I hate it all.”

“You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” Lance says after a beat, expression thoughtful.

“Yes.” Allura swallows. “Lance, my people and I, we are refugees. We have forgotten the depth of what that means, I think. And that scares me. It scares me that what happened to Altea, to my home, and to Daibazaal also, will happen again here.”

“Earth hasn’t been destroyed yet,” Lance mutters. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

“But how long will it last?” Allura pleads. “What we have now is not peace, Lance. Everywhere there is trauma and tension, and Zarkon, who began this foolish War, is still alive and in power. So is Haggar. So is Lotor. Once, I thought they, the Galra, were the only enemies. But hungry wolves will turn on even their own pack.”

“You don’t mean your father?” Lance whispers.

She shakes her head. “I hope not. God, I hope it never comes to that. But I know he was a different man in Altea than the man he is here. And...oh, Lance. I just...is it too much to ask that I would be able to see and know that man again? To live in a world without such deceit and cruelty? A world where I don’t see the War that haunts us all reflected in the eyes of everyone around me?”

“I hope so,” Lance breathes, and she sees it in his eyes then, the raw collective pain of an entire planet’s survivors. “If we live to see the day where a world like that exists, then maybe I could actually die happy.”

“I want to see that world with you, Lance,” Allura says.

Lance’s eyes widen. “Allura…?”

She grabs his hands and squeezes tight. “I need you to know that I think it’s stupid,” she whispers urgently, “that you and I can’t tell the entire Grid about us right this instant. I would, Lance. I would have them know what you mean to me, and that they’re wrong, and that I love you and I don’t  _ care  _ what they –  _ mm.” _

Lance kisses her, hard but sweet and she never wants it to end. She will never understand how the world brought her and this human together, but she is so glad for it. Lance may be just as nihilistic and messy as the rest of them, but with him, she feels like there’s a reason to make things better. She can see a future with Lance – more than that, she  _ wants _ a future with Lance.

Maybe that’s why it feels like she’s lost everything when Lance leaps in front of the bullet meant for her.

The party was in full swing. She had just led Pidge down to the basement, gained access to the private rooms, and was waiting with Kolivan while Pidge searched for the correct cryptographic keys when the first of the gunshots went off. 

“What was that?” Allura demands, leaping from her chair and hurrying to the door. It is locked with a state of the art security system, and a code only she and her father are sure of at any given time. 

“Careful,” Kolivan warns, following her to the door and drawing his blade slowly. “It sounds like we have unwanted company.”

Pidge, who is just down the hall, pokes her head out of the open doorway of a storage closet. “Was that a gunshot?”

She’s answered by a deafening automatic round, and turns white as a sheet.

“Oh, _ shit,” _ Pidge whispers.

“Heavily armed unwanted company,” Kolivan growls.

“The others are still up there,” Allura says, marching towards the door. “Kolivan, stay here with Katie.”

“Allura, wait, you can’t leave!” Pidge exclaims. “What if you’re their target? This room is practically impenetrable, you said so yourself –”

“Which is why you and Kolivan need to stay here with the keys,” Allura says firmly. “Find them, and wait until you know the coast is clear. Kolivan, do not let anyone past this door.”

“Understood, Princess Allura,” Kolivan murmurs. “Hurry. Find Keith and Shirogane first, if possible – I would not be surprised if that bounty hunter was behind this, and if he is, Keith will not be safe.”

Allura has never heard Kolivan speak with anything but calm firmness before, but his voice breaks then, on Keith’s name. 

She nods to the Blades’ leader. “Very well. I will do what I can to keep Keith out of harm’s way.”

Kolivan nods back. “Thank you.” Those two words hold the most emotion she has ever heard from him. 

“What about Acxa?” Pidge asks. 

“Now is not the time to determine who may or may not be traitors,” Allura retorts. “I will try to find the others, and we will figure it out from there. Katie, get back to work.”

Pidge stares at her for a long, agonizing moment, then nods curtly and says, “Okay, ma’am,” and ducks back into the supply closet.

“Keep her safe,” Allura whispers. Kolivan inclines his head, and she flings the door open, making sure it locks tight behind her, then makes her way back up to the first floor. She stays along the edge of the wall, drawing the single weapon she brought with her – it’s a modified taser, one with a whiplike extension, crackling with blue electricity. She keeps it on a low hum as she approaches the main staircase – she can hear the screams and shots increasing in volume, and her heart pounds, mirroring the dull rhythm of a rifle somewhere above her.

Lance, she tells herself, is smart. He’s resourceful. He’ll find a way to stay out of the way, or even fight back. And he has Hunk with him; maybe even Acxa and Coran, and Keith, and fine, maybe Shiro, too. If the bounty hunter truly is on their side; he’ll be a valuable asset in a fight like this.

She peeks around the corner leading up to the open stairwell, and a body tumbles down the steps, landing mere feet from her hiding place.

Allura forces herself to breathe. The body is Altean, a mildly successful corporate executive she has seen often at AlteaTech meetings – Mr. Belvere. He’s very much dead, from the looks of it. On second thought, she would rather not look. At least it isn’t Romelle. Poor girl must be scared out of her mind. And to think, Allura had tried to help her out of a dangerous situation, only to place her in one that was outright deadly –

A tall figure strides down the stairs, hooded head held high, and Allura’s gut twists. Their dark cloak flutters, and in their shadowed face, slitted violet eyes gleam. Their gloved hands glow with the same energy, fingers too long and joints bent at odd angles like they’ve all been hyperextended. 

She glances again at Mr. Belvere’s body, and notices, with cold dread, that his chest is not riddled with bullets, but seared and blackened as if by a superheated blast. 

Allura has never seen a Druid, but she has heard the stories. Never from the source, of course – few, if any, face a Druid and live to tell the tale. They are exceedingly rare, thought to be highly weaponized androids, or else genetically modified Galra, created in Zarkon’s wife Haggar’s laboratory. There were more before the war, but now…

If Haggar is using them here, she must want something here very, very badly.  

Allura must not let them get it. 

She steps out from behind the wall, taser-whip snapping out at her side. The Druid pauses, its movements slow, calculated.  _ Princessss Allura, _ the Druid rasps, and she starts – for some reason, she never considered they might be able to speak. To be fair, its speech could never be mistaken for natural.

“What do you want?” Allura demands, fighting to keep her voice even.

_ Project VOLTRON, _ the Druid replies, head tilted ten degrees too far to the side.  _ Alfor’sss bessst-kept sssecret. Not ssso sssecret anymore, isss it? _

Allura’s whip crackles louder as she amps up the voltage. “I don’t believe you. How would you know the first thing about what my father’s planning?”

_ Ssspies, _ the Druid hisses, and Allura takes a step back.  _ We have eyesss and earsss everywhere, little princessss. _

“You’re wrong. Our people are loyal,” Allura retorts.  _ Who? Who is it? _

_ Sssuch confidenccce, _ the Druid chuckles.  _ But you are foolisshh to trussst them. Give me the data, or you will regret it. _

“She’s not giving you shit,” someone says from the top of the stairs, and as the Druid whirls, two shotgun shells send it flying backwards, followed by a beam of white-hot plasma which brings it to its knees. Allura seizes the opportunity, and her whip arches through the air, trailing heat and light before snapping into place around the Druid’s neck. 

She yanks, tension coiling the rope taut and dragging the Druid down, strangling it and burning through fabric and flesh alike. The Druid chokes and claws at the whip but Allura tugs tighter, and does not relent until it jerks spasmodically once, twice, before falling limp. Violet energy crackles and dies over its splayed limbs. Allura has a sneaking suspicion this was only a minion – its master would not be so easy to dispose of.

Lance shoots it again for good measure as he comes down the stairs, Hunk hot on his heels with the smoking shotgun. Allura could cry in relief, but doesn’t. She smooths back the stray wisps of her hair, flicks the whip back into its taser shell, and nods to them both. “It’s good to see you two. What’s going on up there?”

The usual humor is gone from both their faces. They exchange dark looks. “It’s bad, Allura,” Lance whispers. “They’re shooting everything that moves.”

She bites her lip and draws blood. “Have you seen anyone else? Romelle? Coran? Keith? Acxa?”

Hunk shakes his head. “Keith and Shiro disappeared a little while before the first Warlords showed up –”

“Warlords?!” Allura demands. Someone screams in the distance, followed by more shots, but they are getting fewer and further between, which is...disconcerting. 

“Yeah,” Lance mutters. “Warlords and a handful of Druids. Lotor and Haggar must be working together – can’t say I’m surprised. Like mother, like son.”

“You say Shiro and Keith left early? What about Acxa? Coran?” Allura has never wanted to be wrong more in her life than she does now.

“Acxa was near us and stayed next to Coran the whole time,” Hunk says. “She was following the plan; didn’t see anything abnormal. And, uh…”

“Shiro and Keith went into one of the private rooms,” Lance says, arms folded. “So either they finally fucked, or they finally murdered each other.”

“Or both,” Hunk supplies. “Some people are into that.” Lance wrinkles his nose.

“Or they alerted the enemy we were here,” Allura says under her breath. “Get down, both of you. I’m going to find the others. You two need to support Kolivan in defending Katie in the basement. If they have Druids, they have firepower that can bypass those doors...one Blade won’t be enough.”

“Princess, no,” Lance protests, “you can’t go out there alone. No way, Jose.” 

“Lance, that was not a request,” Allura snaps. “Go. Now.”

“No,” Lance says. “If you’re going, I’m going with you.”

Hunk looks from Lance to Allura and shakes his head. “Well,  _ I’m _ going down to help Pidge. Be careful, bud.” He squeezes Lance’s shoulder. “You too, Princess.” Hunk nods at her and hurries down the stairs past her, blanching when he sees Mr. Belvere’s body.

When he’s gone, they stand facing each other. “Let’s get the others,” Lance says, and extends a hand to her.

She brushes past him, jaw set. “You were given an order, Lance.” 

“And I  _ considered  _ following it,” Lance replies, lips quirked. His sly smile falls as another panicked scream echoes through the hazy air. “Shit. Princess, it’s bad out there, real bad –”

“Which is why I told you to  _ stay with Hunk –” _

“Which is why  _ I  _ told  _ you _ to let me stay with you –”

Two silhouettes run from the rolling smoke. “There she is!  _ FIRE!” _

_ “ALLURA, GET DOWN!”  _

Coran’s shout comes too late. Allura is frozen, and though Alteans may lord their lightning-fast instincts over humans, she can do nothing, nothing at all when Lance moves as if in slow motion in front of the speeding bullet. It isn’t slow, of course – it happens in a fraction of a second, and as he falls she thinks he must have been prepared for it, to move so fast. He didn’t hesitate. He just did it.

Allura goes down hard on her knees, catching him a moment before his head hits the stairs. The bullet struck his left eye. It’s a mess. She wants to cry, or vomit, or scream, but all she does is kneel there in choked silence as two gunshots follow, the silhouettes crash to the floor, and Acxa and Coran sprint down the stairs.

“Princess!” Coran cries, his pale face streaked with grime and some minor shrapnel wounds. “Oh, dear – Lance –  _ Lance _ .”

Acxa approaches more slowly, holding her gun limp at her side. “He had a handgun,” she mutters. “Better than a rifle, I guess. Slower impact. Is he dead?”

Coran kneels down beside Allura and presses two fingers to the side of Lance’s lolling neck. Allura squeezes her eyes shut. She doesn’t want to know. She doesn’t –

“He’s alive,” Coran whispers. “I don’t believe it.”

Allura opens her eyes. She doesn’t believe it, either. How can he possibly be alive? He isn’t moving, speaking, smiling, laughing...his expression is empty, stunned.

“Bullet must have shattered the cheekbone first, hit his eye at an angle...with any luck, it never reached the brain,” Acxa says. She sets a handgun down next to Allura, who eyes it dully. “Don’t move him yet. Maybe try to stop the bleeding, elevate his head…”

“He needs medical attention!” Coran exclaims. 

“We’re still in a zone with active gunfire; more bullet wounds won’t help him,” Acxa retorts. “I’ll try to find some kind of stretcher, see if I can’t find Shiro and Keith while I’m at it.”

“Hunk is downstairs,” Allura whispers. “With Kolivan and Pidge...Coran, you should go to them.”

“Yes, Princess, at once,” Coran whispers back, touching her shoulder lightly before standing.

“He was supposed to be with them,” Allura says, staring at Lance’s ruined face. “Lance should be down there with them.”

“Stay here, Princess, and shoot any stranger who gets too close,” Acxa says, her brow creased and voice softer than usual, and then she turns on her heel and runs back into the smoke. 

“Will you be alright?” Coran asks.

She doesn’t look up at him. “Yes,” Allura says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It will be alright,” Coran adds, a little helplessly. “Just…” His eyes shine in a way that terrifies her, because she has never seen Coran cry and never wishes to, and then he leans down and kisses her forehead, smooths the sweaty hair away from her face, and leaves though he looks like he wants to do nothing less.

Allura looks down at Lance. He stares back sightlessly from a bloodied crater lined with shattered bone, the fake Altean mark fragmented and bloodied. She tears a strip from her filmy skirts, not because she can’t bear to look at the wound, but because Lance wouldn’t want her to. 

Such a vain boy, he is. But she can’t fault him for it. Not when he’s spent nights carefully painting tiny glow-in-the-dark crescent moons and stars on her nails, or braiding her hair until she swats his hands away and puts them to better use, or giggling as they concoct increasingly elaborate face mask mixtures that smell like an entire spice cabinet. 

This is her fault, Allura thinks. Her fault for looking at that cocky human in blue and going against all her better judgments, and going home with him. Her fault for hiring him, and all the others with him. Her fault for going home with him again, and again, and again. Her fault for breaking the unspoken rules. 

Her fault for falling in love with him.  

“I’m sorry,” Allura whispers, bowing over him, clutching him to her. “Don’t go. Please, don’t go. I love you. I shouldn’t, but I do, I do.”

A single trail of blood drips from under the makeshift bandage like a tear, staining the marble below.

Then a towering figure steps from the haze, and Allura fumbles for the handgun, though she knows if not for Lance she would be dead, and maybe, when all is said and done, she should be.

She holds her breath as the smoke parts to reveal them. Maybe she should be dead, but like Hell she’s gonna let anyone take Lance from her.

*

“He’s still alive,” Shiro observes as Allura warily lowers the gun.

His blue suit is ruined with blood, as is the entire left side of his face. Allura must have torn a strip of her gown off to staunch the bleeding, because his left eye is bound over by pink taffeta, though it’s already bled through most of it. His remaining eye is cracked open in a hint of bleary blue, and when Shiro ventures closer, he can see the slight rise and fall of Lance’s chest.

“We cannot move him,” Allura retorts. “Not without a stretcher of some kind. Have you seen Acxa?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. “She went to find Pidge with Keith. They must have taken the other stairwell down.”

“Keith’s alive, then,” Allura whispers. 

“Last I checked.” Shiro glances back and forth. “You shouldn’t be out in the open like this. Someone might –” He freezes.

Several steps down, an inert figure stares at him from blank violet eyes. Allura follows his gaze. “Druids,” she says.

“They’re here?”

“They were,” Allura mutters. “That one’s dead.”

“Not dead,” Shiro says. “Deactivated, that’s all.” He walks down the stairs and nudges its head with his shoe. 

“Have you seen Romelle?” Allura asks. Her tone is distant, flat, like she’s already decided his answer, and it isn’t a good one.

“Yes. I got her out,” Shiro says, looking back at her over his shoulder. Allura’s eyes widen, and her face crumples a second before she can duck her head. “She’s safe, waiting by the spinners.”

Allura swallows. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I don’t suppose it’s any use asking if you were the traitor?”

Shiro sighs. “I wasn’t,” he says. “Acxa claims she wasn’t, either.”

“But they knew we were here.”

“They did.” Shiro looks down into the basement. “It’s suspiciously quiet –”

Something  _ roars _ from below them, shaking the building’s foundations _. _ It isn’t a gun. It isn’t human, either.

“Go,” Allura gasps, cradling Lance so that the curtain of her disheveled hair falls down around him, hiding his face from view. “That’s an order, Shirogane, and I have just about _ had it  _ with people disobeying my orders!  _ GO!” _

“Going,” Shiro agrees hastily, and hurries down the stairs, giving the Druid’s body a wide berth. He’d hoped never to see one of those things again, but he’d also hoped for world peace and environmental stability, so he’s disappointed but not exactly surprised. 

The basement smells like cleaning agents and the lingering hint of expensive cologne; many powerful people have walked these halls. And most of them are probably dead, now. Oh, well. So it goes. 

Another roar rattles the walls, too close for comfort, and Shiro peers around the corner. 

Allura never told him which room was which, but he’s guessing the one with its heavily armored door ripped off the hinges and tossed a good ten feet down the hall is a decent place to start. The metal door has huge claw marks gouged into it, and as Shiro creeps closer to the gaping doorway, he hears the labored breathing of what sounds like a beast within.

Because that’s exactly what it is.

The Robeast is hunched over to accommodate its unnatural bulk in the small room, and its body resembles some sort of fucked up giant gorilla, albeit one with cybernetic modifications galore. Like King Kong, but without any brain, animal or otherwise, because affixed to the nape of its neck gleams the unmistakable spike of a hoktril, fused permanently to the leathery skin.

Shiro stares at it for a moment, wondering if it was human once. Wondering if that could have been him, if a certain Galran doctor had not freed his mind before he lost it completely.

Then he sees the tiny figure crouched under a fallen filing cabinet, her glasses cracked, holding a thick Manila envelope to her chest like a baby.

The Robeast sniffs the air and growls, long strings of bioluminescent drool puddling on the ground below it. It’s mere feet from Pidge. It could kill her with a single swipe of its claws.

“Hey,” Shiro says casually, stepping fully into the doorway, and shoots it.

The Robeast howls in rage, whirling in a clumsy motion that sends the nearest filing cabinet crashing to the floor, narrowly avoiding Pidge. Shiro swears and powers up his arm, and the Robeast falters at the harsh violet glow before deadly light slices through the air, and then through its thick flesh. 

Shiro dodges a flurry of vicious claws and snapping teeth, and is forced to roll behind the fallen cabinets when acid sprays across the floor from the creature’s gaping maw. The caustic liquid bubbles over the tile where it splatters across it, and the filing cabinet hisses as the acid eats through the metal.

Shiro fires his arm blindly and acid arcs wildly over him in response, followed by the Robeast’s agonized snarl. He fires his gun once, twice, three times, and dives out of the way when the Robeast’s paw smashes down onto the cabinet, splitting it in two. 

Behind the Robeast, Pidge is cautiously crawling to her feet, and Shiro tries to tell her to run with his eyes. 

It doesn’t work. Pidge sets down the precious envelope, looks up at the Robeast’s spiked back with determination, and vaults herself off the filing cabinet onto its shoulders.

The Robeast roars and tries to knock her off, shaking its head wildly and stomping at the ruined floor so hard that any remaining filing cabinets crash down to their doom. Shiro gets three more shots in before Pidge lets out a terrifying screech that vaguely resembles a hungry seagull, and slams something small and sharp down into the Robeast’s skull. Blood spurts from its forehead and dribbles down into its eyes, but the wound doesn’t slow it down, otherwise. Pidge stares at Shiro, eyes huge and face shiny with sweat, and Shiro lunges for the Robeast’s exposed stomach, blasting it with energy until the Robeast groans and falls forwards, landing heavily facedown. 

Pidge yelps and clings on for dear life. Yet, even when the Robeast is down, it reaches for Shiro with single minded violence, slitted eyes glowing with violet hatred. Pidge scrambles off of it, mouth hanging open. “H-how – how is it still alive?!”

But Shiro knows. He sidesteps the Robeast’s grasping claws and hauls himself up onto its hunched shoulders, grabbing for the hoktril spike. His palm heats up, temperature climbing until steam begins to rise from the metal, and the Robeast jerks spasmodically under him, harder when he pulls on the spike, wrenching it slowly but surely out of the creature’s head. When something finally gives, the Robeast shudders and falls still, and the hoktril pops out like a cork, followed by a sickly green ooze. 

Pidge wretches. Shiro climbs off of the thing, and peers down at its empty face. The eyes are dull and glazed, as if they had never been alive to begin with. Deactivated, he thinks.

“That is so fucked up,” Pidge whispers, gathering the envelope back up into her arms. They’re lucky none of the acid spit landed on it. The Robeast stinks like a corpse left to rot in the sun for a week. He wonders how long it’s technically been dead.

“Where are Hunk and Kolivan?” Shiro asks. 

Pidge blanches. “The...there were Druids, I think that’s what they were. They took Kolivan. Hunk and Coran went after them. Then Keith and Acxa –”

“The Druids took Kolivan?” Shiro demands. 

Pidge nods. “Yeah. There were five or six of ‘em, he tried to fight them off and managed to lead them away from me, but they injected him with something, knocked him out. When Keith and Acxa got here, it was right before the Robeast came, and they said they were looking for some kind of stretcher and I told them about Kolivan and…” She bites her lip. “Keith went off on his own to find Kolivan. Acxa continued on to find a stretcher. She said it was for Lance, is he –”

“Focus,” Shiro says. “You need to get out with that envelope. Romelle should be by the spinners. Are you armed?” 

Pidge holds up what she used to stab the Robeast. It’s a very large letter opener.

Shiro shakes his head and hands her his gun. “Take this, and don’t get shot.”

Pidge takes the gun gingerly. “You didn’t answer my question. Is Lance –”

“He’s on the main stairs leading down to the basement with Allura.” Shiro gives her a look. “Maybe I’d better take the envelope.”

She clutches it closer and glares at him. “What, so you can run off with it and hand it over to the Garrison? I don’t think so.”

“Then promise me you’ll take that envelope and run, no matter what condition Lance is in,” Shiro retorts.

Pidge swallows. “What are you saying? Is it bad? How bad?”

“Promise me,” Shiro says.

Her eyes narrow. “Fine,” Pidge says. “I promise. I’ll get out with the envelopes. Satisfied?”

“Go,” Shiro says. “Which way did they take Kolivan?”

“Deeper into the basement, down the halls to the left,” Pidge mutters, and sprints out the door with the envelope. 

Shiro has a feeling they’re never going to see the envelope’s contents. And he might never see Pidge again. Or Allura. Or Lance. 

He heads down the left hallway and wonders if he is the traitor. Maybe Ulaz didn’t get all of the hoktril out. Maybe Haggar still controls some small, unknown part of his mind. Maybe he’s been a sleeper agent all along, and if he was, how would he ever know it, until it was too late

But then Shiro thinks of his hand around Keith’s soft throat, of Keith mouth hard and hot and vulnerable on his own, and betrayal seems impossible. Wouldn’t he have killed Keith then, if that was his directive? It would have been so easy. But he didn’t kill Keith. He didn’t, and that has to count for something.

The hallway goes on and on, an endless stretch of gaping black, and the further Shiro walks, the faster his heart beats. The Druids took Kolivan. Keith went after them. If the Druids find Keith, they will kill him. 

Shiro feels their energy prickling over his skin before he sees them. It oscillates between scalding heat and crackling cold, lifting the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. 

_ Ssshiro, _ they whisper, and then, softer, like a prayer,  _ Champion. _

“Where is he?” Shiro asks the shadows, which reach for him like lovers, grasping with lazy, hazy neediness. “What have you done with him?”

_ He isss like all the othersss, _ they say.  _ Too late, alwaysss too late. Too late to sssave you, or anyone elssse. _

It’s then that Shiro sees a shadow different from the rest, slumped over against the wall, surrounded by a dark and growing stain. Keith’s eyes glow pale gold in the gloom, and when Shiro kneels in front of him, lifting Keith’s face up to his own, Keith’s skin is cool to the touch, like windows chilled by rain.

His entire right side is soaked through with blood as Shiro lifts him up. The wound is high on the join of his neck and shoulder, split clean through the brocade jacket. The beautiful fabric is destroyed.  _ An axe,  _ Shiro thinks,  _ or a machete.  _

But the wound isn’t as deep as Shiro expected; it just won’t stop bleeding. Shiro’s mind swims with thoughts of anticoagulants, toxins, infections. Keith collapses into him. “I tried,” he rasps, his voice constricted and faint, like he can’t get enough air. “But they got him. They have Kolivan. It isn’t right. It isn’t…” Keith sways, eyes rolling back; he’s barely conscious. His pupils are dilated hugely, almost like they were when he was writhing under Shiro, but unnaturally so, induced by something more sinister than desire. 

Shiro gives his face a light smack. “Keep your eyes open. You’ve lost too much blood. How were you injured?”

Keith blinks up at him, face gray. “Knife,” he says. “Glowing purple…” He hisses when Shiro’s palm ghosts over the wound. “Stings. Like getting shot.”

“It was poisoned,” Shiro says, and his voice is toneless, but his heart hurts. “You’ve been poisoned, Keith.”

“Yeah,” Keith grunts, and closes his eyes. “Damn.”

Shiro hits him again. “Don’t. Keep them open.”

But Keith can’t, and they both know it, and as they stand in the darkness together, Keith clinging and bleeding out, Shiro holding him tight and stubborn, his hand begins to glow and warm rapidly on Keith’s shoulder.

“Oh,” Keith mumbles, gaze sliding to it slow and resigned, “so you  _ are _ gonna kill me. Mm. Glad you blew me, first.”

Shiro half-rips his belt open and folds it in half with shaking fingers. He holds it up to Keith’s mouth and says, “Bite down.”

Keith holds his gaze and bites down on the leather, brows scrunching together.

Shiro cauterizes the open wound with his open, superheated palm, and Keith screams behind his teeth and the belt, pressing his face into Shiro’s chest as if trying to escape the sensation. The acrid stench of burnt skin and hair spills into the air as Shiro pulls his palm away. Keith whimpers around the belt, breathing hard before passing out in Shiro’s arms, the blistered flesh of his shoulder angry and red, but forced shut by the searing heat. 

He gathers Keith up in his arms, careful not to reopen the wound. Keith’s breathing is rapid and shallow, and Shiro runs back down the hall, shadows trailing after him, whispering,  _ Too late, too late, look, now you’ve hurt him, your fault, again, Champion. _

Coran and Hunk nearly run into him halfway back. “Shiro!” Hunk exclaims, stopping short when he sees Keith.  _ “Keith _ – you found him – he kept running after the Druids, we couldn’t stop him, they took Kolivan —”

“He and Lance need medical attention immediately,” Shiro says. 

Hunk’s eyes widen. “Lance?! What’s happened to Lance?” He glances at Coran, who says nothing, and looks away guiltily.

“He’s an eye short,” Shiro retorts. Keith feels so small against his chest, nothing but fragile bones and blood dripping through a broken hourglass. Hunk stares at him, seeking solace Shiro cannot give him, nor anyone. “Acxa went to find a stretcher. We don’t have time to see if she made it. How do we get out, Coran?”

“There’s an exit door just this way,” Coran says. “It should get us out of this bloody hellhole.”

“And Pidge?” Hunk demands, voice rising. “We’re gonna leave her to die, too, and the keys with her?”

“I killed the Robeast,” Shiro says. “Pidge should be at the spinners by now, if she didn’t get gunned down, first.”

“Robeast?!” Hunk repeats, horrified. “Here?”

“Druids and Robeasts go hand in hand,” Coran mutters, and turns down another hallway, narrower and lit with the smoky gray of fogged fluorescents. He stops and nods at them both. “I must return to find the Princess. You two, run. The exit door is at the end of the hall to the right; it will lock behind you. Get Keith to safety.”

Shiro doesn’t need to be told twice.

*

Pidge clutches the envelopes to her chest as the rain sleets down, soaking through her green dress and plastering her hair to the back of her neck and pounding skull. She can’t remember the last time she felt this alone in the Grid. Lance and Allura were nowhere to be found when she sprinted up the stairs, though she had found a great deal of blood. 

On second thought, she should have gone for an exit in the basement instead of running through the graveyard Event Horizon had become. Pidge wonders how many made it out; how many never had a chance. 

A whisper brushes past the shell of her ear and she shudders, gasps, lungs burning and legs pumping faster. They’re after her; she can’t see them but she knows. They watch her from street lamps, perched atop them like carrion crows, cloaks flapping dully in the hot wind. Some skulk along the windows of skyscrapers, moving from one window to the next, eyes never leaving her, scaling entire city blocks without ever touching the ground.

They are preternatural and hungry, and she is just a girl, a running girl with waterlogged shoes and an envelope filled with terrible, unknowable secrets. Who was she to think they were within her reach? Who was she to take them from the hands they belonged to?

Pidge holds the envelopes until the edges cut into her palms. She has never believed in magic, and even now, she struggles to write this off as neuronal interruptions, projected sound waves at an unpleasant decibel, chemicals in the air, in the rain, in the knife wound streaking across her heaving ribs like the featherlight stroke of a paintbrush dipped in reddest red. 

She stumbles at the thought, and pain blooms up her side, and she shakes it off. The spinners are not far, not far at all. She knows she has passed the same street sign three times, however. Panic burns in her throat. She’s trapped, caught in a loop, and they are watching her, laughing at her, biding their time. 

“Who are you?” Pidge gasps as the same street sign looms ahead of her for the fourth time.

_ Our name is Macidusss,  _ a voice replies, and the knife wound throbs, ignites into agonizing pulses which nearly send her to her knees. Nearly.  _ What is yours, besides thief? _

“We are both thieves, then,” Pidge snaps, ignoring the line of blood trickling from her cracked lips. “At least I had some authority on which to steal it.”

_ We have the authority of the Galra Empire,  _ Macidus says.

“The Galra Empire is over,” Pidge snarls. “Their authority doesn’t mean shit to me, creep-idus.”

_ Then will it mean something to know your friends are dead?  _

Pidge freezes. “No,” she says. “No, you’re a liar. You’re lying.”

_ You want us to be lying,  _ Macidus says,  _ but we are telling the truth. Your friend, Keith, who shares our blood, chokes on his last breath as we speak. _

“No!” Pidge cries, envelope crumpling against her chest. “Shut up!”

_ The one you call Shiro, the one we call Champion, dealt the final blow,  _ Macidus continues. 

Pidge shakes. “But he saved me,” she says.

_ He saved you for us. Keith was his true goal. _

“Stop,” Pidge whispers, “no, he’s changed, he worked for the Garrison, not you.”

_ But what is the difference, Katie Holt? _ Macidus sighs.  _ Don’t we all want the same thing, in the end? _

“And what’s that,” Pidge grits out.

_ To survive,  _ Macidus says, and all of the shadows leap from their perches, racing towards her faster than any thing should be able to move. Pidge falls to the ground on instinct, curling in a vicious ball around the envelope, around the keys which she knows she must be willing to die for. But she cannot die, because if she does, she will never be able to decrypt the files, and everyone in Event Horizon will have died for nothing, and the world will have nothing but nuclear winters and mutated cells to live for.

Clawed hands tear at Pidge’s clothes and hair and skin, and she curls tighter, and the voices say,  _ Let go,  _ and she says,  _ No, no, never.  _ And she means it. Even if they have to strip her down to her very bones, she will not surrender. 

She doesn’t remember how the world was, before. It’s easy to forget what you never had. But Pidge doesn’t want to have to forget. She wants to know that world, the world caught in the old photos her mother keeps in a kitchen drawer, and takes out only on late nights when the rain will not relent, when she looks at each and every photo and cries and cries for all that was lost.

There was once a world that was not dust and ruin and death, and Pidge wants it, more than anything.

Claws sink into the knife wound and Pidge squeezes her eyes shut, and thinks of green grass and ancient trees and ripe apples and clear blue skies and cities without walls.

The shadows rip away from her with strangled cries, the regular pattern of the rain breaks on a sizzle and a scream of raw rage and pain, and all at once the oppressive weight upon her lifts, wrenched away by the figure towering over her. It’s large enough to be a full sized Galra, but it’s no Galra.

“Allura?” Pidge whispers, wiping rain and blood out of her eyes. 

Allura looms over her in shapeshifted Galra form, holding a limp body in her arms. It’s Lance. She’s angled his face and front away from the falling rain, so Pidge can’t see if he’s awake or even alive, but the fury burning in Allura’s eyes does not bode well.

“That actually worked.” Acxa stands from where she must have crouched behind a fallen trash can, and tosses what looks like a used flare onto the pavement behind her. “It’s an old superstition,” Acxa adds at Pidge’s bewildered stare. “Druids are afraid of the light.”

Allura holds her still-crackling whip in her free hand. “Pidge,” she says, silver hair hanging into her burning eyes, “you’re hurt.”

“But I got the keys,” Pidge says, holding up the soggy envelope weakly. “And that’s what matters.”

“This was a mistake.” Allura’s voice is hollow. “We were betrayed, and we have suffered heavy, unnecessary casualties.”

“She’s a ray of sunshine,” Acxa mutters. “Let’s get you two to a hospital. Where are Shiro and Keith?”

Pidge swallows. “The shadows said…” She trails off. She doesn’t want to believe it. “I don’t know.”

Acxa gives her a curious look as Allura bends down and reaches out for Pidge. “I’ll carry you,” Allura rumbles. “Away from this awful place.”

“Princess, wait, we’ve got company,” Acxa warns, pointing her gun at the advancing shadow — but it’s only Coran, who stops short and stares up at Allura. “We never found a stretcher,” Acxa mutters. “Allura took matters into her own hands. Glad you’re not dead.”

“We must get to the spinners,” Coran says, shaking his head. “Keith has been badly wounded. With any luck, Shiro and Hunk are waiting for us with him already.”

Acxa’s jaw clenches. “Then what are we waiting for?”

_ He isn’t dead, _ Pidge thinks, slumping in relief as Allura scoops her up.  _ At least, not yet. _

They move through the city streets fast but wary, the rain tapering off into a rising fog which fills the night air like a cold echo of the smoke bombs. By the time they reach the spinners, the horizon is lightening, and a pale head of hair peeks over the hood of the first spinner. It’s Romelle, and she looks like a drowned rat, but she’s alive and unhurt.

“They’re here!” Romelle hisses in a stage whisper, and the door to the second spinner opens. Hunk steps out, and through the open door Pidge can see two huddled figures — Shiro, holding Keith to him, his body curled over Shiro’s lap and shaking with violent tremors. 

Allura lets Pidge down, but not Lance, whose face she still keeps hidden. “Shiro? What’s wrong with him?”

Shiro does not answer, only gathers Keith closer and lifts his gaze to them, a strange flat gray that leaves Pidge unnerved and unsure if the Druids were lying after all.

Hunk coughs. “Poisoned knife,” he supplies. “One of the Druids got him.”

“I was cut by a Druid, too,” Pidge whispers, eyes widening. 

“They didn’t want you dead,” Shiro says, voice as eerie and flat as his eyes. “They needed you. Keith was expendable.”

“Kolivan,” Keith rasps, his eyes golden slits. “They took him...they’ll torture him…”

Shiro shushes him, left hand smoothing Keith’s hair away from his damp brow.

Allura falters. “The Druids took Kolivan? How? Who told them?”

“We can figure this out later,” Hunk pleads, glancing from Lance to Keith and back again. “First, hospital.”

“Lance is going to the Royal Clinic,” Allura declares.

“But that’s exclusive to Alteans!” Coran exclaims.

Allura gives him a hard look. “I don’t care. They will admit him, or I will make them.”

“Keith can’t go to a hospital,” Acxa says, hurrying over to the Blades’ spinner. “I’ll take him back to Thaldcyon with Shiro. The rest of you, do what you have to, and don’t let anyone find those keys.”

Allura nods. “I choose to believe in your loyalty for now, Acxa — and Shiro,” she says. “But if you lied, mark my words — I will not rest until you regret your very birth.”

That said, she shrinks back to her usual size, still carrying Lance, and Pidge gets a brief, awful, impossible glimpse of the mangled mess of his face before the door closes.

“Come, Katie,” Coran murmurs, ushering her to the other side of the spinner. Romelle and Hunk hurry after them. 

Pidge looks back at Keith, whose head lolls into the crook of Shiro’s neck. “Is he going to make it?” she whispers.

“Get in,” Hunk mutters, shaking his head. “You’re bleeding everywhere.” His voice is harsh but he’s gentle as he guides her down onto the leather seats. 

She peers past him, into the other spinner, and forgets what Macidus told her entirely when Shiro bows his head over Keith and Keith says, half-whisper, half-sob, “Dad, I’m sorry. I tried to save you, this time, but I couldn’t...I couldn’t.”

The door slams shut.


End file.
